Fraudate Iuventa
by Calliope'sInkSplatter
Summary: 6th Year AU. In a bid to help rid the world of the Dark Lord, Hermione Granger casts a spell to summon a tutor to instruct her in the theory of the Dark Arts, in exchange, he expects her to teach him to manipulate with sincerity. Can these two characters robbed of their youths make it through unscathed?
1. Chapter 1

She stared at the boy standing in front of her in shock. Panic rippled through her body. Her eyes frantically darted across the room, scanning every detail of the Gryffindor girls' dorms, the colours now a blur of crimson and gold in her mind. There was no use in even trying the window - oh why didn't she own a broomstick? - and he was blocking the exit to the door. "You…" she said breathlessly, "I-but- how?"

He quirked an eyebrow. "Me? I don't believe we are acquainted." he said simply.

No. No. Of course they weren't. Not yet at least. A manic laugh spread across her face. So this was who fate had teamed her up with? When she'd cast the spell and asked for a tutor in the dark arts - it had been with the intention of destroying the very man standing before her, not learn from him.

"My apologies." she said, getting to her feet. "I believe there must have been some kind of mist-"

"No mistake whatsoever." he said. "Well, of course I didn't expect you to be a Gryffindor, but so long as your knowledge of Runes, and dare I say it, manipulation, is adequate, I don't believe that will be an issue." He looked pensive for a moment. "In fact it would probably make sense for you to be in Gryffindor. I've always been told that I occasionally sound… dishonest. A…" he seemed to struggle on the next word, "… flaw in my language I am keen to rectify."

Her hands shook slightly. "You… you cast the exchange spell?" He rolled his eyes, as if to say, 'obviously-I-did-don't-be-so-dimwitted-else-my-faith-in-you-shall-diminish-rather-rapidly'. "You're a sixth year too, I take it? What year are we in anyway?"

She opened the window to let some of the cool winter air in, and gazed at the landscape sprawling beyond the tower. Winter had been particularly harsh this year. Frost had kissed the trees into a white stupor, ice had swept over the lake, the Hogwarts grounds were blanketed in snow. To some, a world like this must have looked uninviting. To her… A small smile spread across her lips. To her it was beautiful, beautiful and perfect. She swallowed, searching for the courage to turn to the man beside her.

"My name is Hermione Granger." she spoke calmly, ignoring his previous questions, and holding out her hand. "And you are?"

He shook it with a firm grip, a smile tugging at his lips. "Tom Riddle."

"Granger? Any relation to Hector Dagworth-Granger, the famed potion master? And you didn't answer my last few questions." he added reproachfully.

Sweet Merlin. So many questions. Was this what she sounded like to other people? Didn't he ever get tired of asking incessant questions? "I am indeed in sixth year, and this is the twenty-sixth of December 1996." She paused, choosing her next words carefully. "As for Hector Dagworth-Granger, I doubt I am any relation of his." She made a show of examining her nails. "I am, after all, muggle-born." she smirked, eyeing his Slytherin uniform carefully. "What is it people in your house call me? A mudblood, yes."

If there was any shock manifesting in his brain, he didn't show it. In fact, he seemed rather pleased. "It's the twenty-sixth of December 1942 where I come from." He grinned, before comparing the time on his wristwatch to that of the clock. "In fact, I do believe we have managed to synchronise this perfectly. Though your clock may be perhaps five minutes late."

"It's not late. But if the only difference between our day-times is five minutes, then we should consider ourselves lucky." she muttered.

"The half-century time-gap between us suits my purposes rather well. You and I can be completely forthcoming with each other without any fear of repercussions. As for you blood heritage," he began, "Well, talent does come in the most unexpected of places. Now - I need you to help me with some rather tricky runes - this would be a partnership of course." She nodded. "I've also been told that whilst I'm charming I lack… as I say, what's the word…"

Hermione raised an eyebrow at this. Charming, perhaps, but what he lacked most of all was - "sincerity. My lies occasionally fall short when it comes to this. I need to learn how to appear sincere. This is of the greatest importance to me - I cannot emphasise this enough." He sat on the bed opposite her - Lavender's - eyeing the frilly pink pillow case disdainfully. "Can you fulfil these terms?"

"Yes. I do believe I can." She began to examine the quills on her bedside table, holding them up to the light. If anything, she was merely avoiding his gaze. She'd managed to escape having to look directly into his eyes during the whole meeting so far. "The Dark Arts. I need you to teach me about the Dark Arts." - _to bring you down_ \- she almost wanted to add.

"Brilliant." There was something in his voice, a strange mix of joy and hunger. Lord Voldemort, joyous. Who'd have thought? "I'm also thinking of taking up Legilimency, I'd need a partner for that." he added.

She frowned. "I think for obvious reasons, that would not work. I can't allow you to look at the future, _Tom_." This time she looked into his eyes. They were a mesmerising shade of dark grey - with hints of green and violet strewn here and there. She swallowed. He seemed pensive. "That seems fair, I suppose. I'd like to at least talk through the theory with you though. I can tell you're no fool, and Hogwarts in my time is so inbred in the Slytherin quarters, it's impossible to have a proper conversation with anyone."

She snorted, her lips involuntarily twisting into a grin. Perhaps they weren't so different after all. "I would .. love to discuss theory with you." She said at last, and found herself meaning it.

He smiled. "I look forwards to it, Miss Granger. I assume it's the winter holidays here as well, which would explain why the place seems deserted. I shall call on you this time tomorrow, and we can begin." And with a swift bow, he was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

The night that followed the encounter was not easy on Hermione's mind. Dreams, fevered, blackened, red eyes that turned to grey, burning castles and manic laughter, echoed through her skull. Several times in the night she woke up in a sweat, and it was only with dawn that she felt relief. The breath of sunrise turned the snow to gold, and every menacing shadow in the room disappeared.

After getting dressed, she spent most of the morning sitting in the empty common room, pouring over the books she'd used to conjure the enchantment that had brought her unexpected guest. Could she banish him? Lure him into a trap? The enchantment had been a relatively simple one. Ancient, that was true, relying on a slightly strange runic combination - it was designed to provide mutual assistance. Two individuals, each needing something from the other, would find themselves thrown together. Controlling who the individual would be.. or banishing them after having formed the contract - seemed impossible.

The book had been one she'd found whilst in France in the summer between her second and third year. It had been left in an old Muggle bookshop to rot - but she somehow felt the runes to be somewhat familiar to those she'd spied in the course outline for the next year. The book was written in a mix of an elvish dialect - mainly for the spells - and French - to explain the history behind them and the laws that governed them.

She'd bought the book for a pittance, and had been incredibly frustrated to find that the dialect in which it was written was not that which would be studied in school. In fact, she had spent a great deal of time thinking it was complete gibberish.

This had been until the start of this year. With the revelation of Harry and the Dark Lord's prophecy, she had spent most of her time searching for answers. How binding were prophecies? What influence did language have on the outcome? It was through this that she had finally stumbled on an old variant of High Elvish - spoken perhaps in the mid 1200s, in a very small corner of the world. This - this, was the other language in which her book was written! She'd rushed back to her trunk and started translating the book. Oh the possibilities which opened with this new magic! She could learn about anything, anyone. Her enthusiasm had now been met with sore disappointment and dread.

She steadied herself, all she needed to do was find a loophole. The spell could not be 'broken', per se. As of now, Tom Marvolo Riddle was free to waltz into her life at any moment - not something that she was going to let happen. _Une fois que le sort est jeté, que le contrat est scellé, nul ne peut l'enlever._ Once the spell is cast, the contract is sealed, none can remove it.

How did one seal the contract? Had she done so already? The next few pages were too moth eaten to read. Could she look for help? _Should_ she seek someone's aid? _More importantly Hermione,_ a voice murmured in her head, _do you truly want help?_

The castle was practically deserted. Earlier on, when she had determined she would need some basic instruction in the dark arts to understand the current war, she'd insisted on staying behind 'to study' - a proposition both her friends and parents had rejected. It was then she'd begun to craft her lie, telling her parents that she'd be going to Ron's for the holidays, and her friends that she'd be going back home. She couldn't now write to them and say that she'd stayed behind to form a pact with a mass murderer, could she? She shook her head. She was tempted to ask Dumbledore - but the magic she'd used, whilst not 'dark magic' per se, was certainly not 'white'. No, she'd made her bed and she would lie in it.

Besides, wasn't it more useful to keep Riddle in sight? She could study him. Learn his weaknesses, understand his every move. It was with this resolution that she made her way back up to her dorm.

"You're late."

He was sitting crosslegged on the bed - her bed - his dark hair falling lazily into his eyes, dark eyes, scanning her every move. On his lap there was a book, _To Kill a Mockingbird._ Her mother had given it to her for her twelfth birthday. She swiped it away from him. "It's rather rude to touch other people's belongings without asking."

"It's rude to be an hour late for a meeting." he drawled in reply. "I almost went downstairs to find you."

"Why didn't you? If this was so important you would have done." she said, struggling to stay calm, seating herself on the bed opposite him.

"I can't afford to be seen, now can I? Strange student, wondering the halls in a fifty year old uniform, looking for a girl he barely knows? That doesn't sit right, does it?" He smirked.

"Cast a disillusionment charm, you dolt. Or send a patronus to look for me."

She thought his cheeks went a little pink. He leant forwards. "Well, perhaps I couldn't be asked." he said defiantly, before adding smoothly, "Sorry, I don't think we got off on the right foot."

She shook her head, her shaggy curls catching the light. "No, no, no. That simply won't do."

Confusion, then annoyance flickered ever so briefly across his features, before he relaxed back into his usual charmer's smile. "What do you mean?"

"You need to pause for longer." She said. "No sincere person would immediately apologise for getting off on the wrong foot straight after having insulted the-"

"I didn't insult-"

"Shhh." she said, placing a finger to her lips as though she were speaking to a small child. His eyebrows knitted together at the gesture, but he remained silent. "You need to pause. Pause and look around furtively, pretend you're embarrassed by your actions - this will convince your interlocutor that you're at a loss for words. Then say _I am so sorry_ or even better _I'm sorry_ \- by adding the personal pronoun in, you make it sound far more heartfelt. You engage with the person you are talking to. Look them in the eye. Pause, then say, _I don't think we got off on the right foot."_ She said. "Although, well done for throwing in a common idiom - it's not too colloquial, but makes your tone friendly enough for the other party to sympathise with." she added pensively, before beginning a small rant on the use of idioms in persuasive speech.

He stared back at her in mild shock. "Hermione. Sweet Hermione." he grinned, "You- you are a godsend! This is perfect!"

Her eyes narrowed. There was something about being treated so familiarly that irked her.

Tom swallowed, and cast a nervous glance around the room. "Look," he began slowly, "I'm sorry." he paused, "I don't think we got off on the right foot."

"Oh, that's quite al-" she began. A smile tugged at the corners of her lips. "Well done. Well done indeed. I'm impressed."

"Thank you. You seem to be a good teacher. Perfect for my purposes. Now, you're looking for instruction in the Dark Arts, are you not? Care to tell me why?" he asked nonchalantly, getting to his feet to stare out of the window, just as she had done the day before.

"Do I need a reason to learn about the Dark Arts?"

His eyes flicked back to her face. She held his gaze. He couldn't help but find this strange girl with the unkempt hair and nut brown eyes strangely unsettling. "You don't, ah, you don't seem the type."

"What makes you say that? There a plenty of evil Gryffindors. I could be one of them."

He picked up _To Kill a Mockingbird_ from her lap, before carefully slotting it back in its place on her bedside table. "You see, though I haven't read this book completely - an hour was good enough to get through most of it. It's rather sentimental. I know the type. A story about morality, social justice," his mouth twisted into a smirk that rather resembled a grimace, " and love." He spat out. "It's a book obviously appreciated for its messages, rather than its prose. Honestly, the writing is all-over the place, it's as though the author had intended it to be several short stories, then changed their mind at the last minute."

"She did, I suppose." Hermione mused. "I rather like the prose though. The episodical nature of it rather enchants me."

"The messages are highly idealistic and impractical. That is clue number one in deciding that you do not fit the pragmatic character who would delve into the Dark Arts." He said in a steely tone.

"Clue number one?" She repeated, her eyebrows raised.

"Yes. Clue number two - you obviously associate the Dark Arts with evil. What was it you said? _There are plenty of evil Gryffindors._ No magic is inherently good or evil. I expected you to know that." He hissed.

"But there are spells that can be used for evil, is that not so? And the spells of the Dark Arts are seldom used for good." She said.

"To have a moral inclination is the prerogative of the caster. Not the spell." he replied.

"Surely then what is good or evil becomes subjective? And if so, any act of violence can be justified."

He stiffened. "Perhaps so. Or perhaps there is no good or evil. Only magic, and those too weak to learn of it." His eyes glinted with those last few words. "Will you learn, Hermione?" he asked, leaning in.

"Will you teach me, Tom?"

He grinned. Then leant down to press his lips to hers. Her eyes widened as she felt his touch, then it was as though a light in her mind had just flickered on, and she pushed him back, knocking over the bedside table. "What in Merlin's name do you think you are doing!?" She spat out angrily, barely noticing the hot golden chain weaving itself around her wrist.

He leapt back. Sweet Salazar, if looks could kill, Granger's face would have destroyed half of Scotland at that point. "Calm down! I was merely sealing the contract!" He brought out a crinkled piece of parchment, pointing hastily at it. _Et, comme dans la vie, le contrat est scellé d'un baiser._ The contract is sealed with a kiss. "Oh." was all she said.

"Oh indeed!" he spat back angrily, showing her a newly formed silver chain on his wrist. "How else did you think the contract was sealed? Or did you not read that part?" He ran a hand through his hair. "I've linked myself with a fool, Salazar have mercy on me."

"I-Well, it's not that. Just the book from where I got my instructions is all moth-eaten. I've already had to reconstruct half the spell from guess-work." she mumbled sheepishly. _That, and I thought we'd already sealed the contract. Now there really is no way of getting rid of you,_ she thought.

"Er.. I.. I'm sorry." she glanced around the room furtively. "I'm sorry we got off on the wrong foot." She said.

"It's fi-" he began. He then noticed the small smile tugging at the corners of her lips, realising exactly what she'd said. He laughed. "I look forwards to working with you, Hermione. Same time tomorrow?"

"Same time tomorrow." she said, before taking _To Kill a Mockingbird_ and handing it to him. "Why don't you take this away and finish it?"

He looked as though he was about to reject the offer. He tucked the book in the pocket of his robes, leant down and whispered, "This time, don't be late." And with that, he turned on his heel and vanished.

Hermione was thoroughly confused.


	3. Chapter 3

Two nights of bloody awful sleep in a row. Two nights! _This must be what Harry feels like,_ she thought bitterly, absentmindedly playing with the delicate gold chain on her wrist. She couldn't help but admire it as it would catch the sun, it was rather beautiful. She'd never been given any jewellery - _apart from the Time Turner, but that hardly counts_ , she huffed - then again, it wasn't as though she'd ever _asked_ for it. She wore a simple leather wristwatch on her left hand and that was all. Jewellery often seemed too frivolous, too easy to lose, too easy to break, useless - she'd simply borrowed pearls from Lavender's extensive collection for the Yule ball. Occasionally, when receiving gifts all wrapped up in pretty packaging, and tied up with ribbon for Christmas or her birthday, she'd keep the ribbon, put up her untameable hair with it. After all, most of her hair ties seemed to break rather easily when coerced into holding the huge mane on her head.

Hermione had decided to take a walk in the grounds that morning - clear her mind. She was still furious at herself for not realising that the contract hadn't been sealed until it was too late. In fact, she was practically fuming for not only had she found no way of breaking the contract, but she'd also had no bloody idea how on earth Tom Riddle was getting from his time to hers! There was no indication of this whatsoever in her book - or if there was, it had been eaten away by mice - but most frustrating of all was that she had actually enjoyed their conversation.

There was no point in talking to Harry or Ron about books, or the nature of good and evil or magical theory. Whilst she never would have called her friends stupid - Harry was, after all, in her mind one of the most emotionally intelligent and empathetic people she'd ever met, and Ron seemed to be quite gifted for logic and strategy (she'd never allowed herself to play chess against him for fear of losing) - they lacked… What was it? This raw passion and thirst for knowledge, academic knowledge, magical knowledge, a burning desire to explore, debate, seek out information. This want to know more - to find out anything and everything about the world - was what had driven her for as long as she could remember. She'd expected to find more of it at Hogwarts - after all, how could you live in the wizarding world and not be fascinated by its secrets? Instead, she had been met with staunch apathy. No one cared. No one wanted to know why _magic did what it did_ , no one cared whether certain spells and theories seemed illogical, whether such and such a book was well written, why a language could live and die in the space of a century. No one understood. Until now. And it irked her, that of all people to understand her was the man whom she had vowed to help destroy.

She couldn't reconcile the two personalities. Yes, Riddle had indeed appeared haughty, detached at first. He seemed to struggle with sincerity, she thought, selfish to the core. And yet… There was something in the way he moved and talked - a strange passion behind his defence of the Dark Arts, his tirade against her book, even camaraderie in his regard towards her. At moments, it seemed that he was just as relieved, no, happy, to have someone to talk to about all this as she was. He was so.. human. He looked nothing like the snake-like figure she'd seen in the Department of Mysteries last summer.

 _But that is exactly why he's dangerous, he may have the face of an angel, but he's already set on a path to destruction. You can't fix people, Hermione._

"Ten minutes late," he said with a slow smile. "My, my, Hermione. It's an improvement from yesterday, but what would your teachers say if you turned up so late to their lessons?" He'd conjured up an emerald green armchair, and was sitting in it comfortably next to the dormitory fire, an ankle wresting upon his knee, his dark eyes watching her, the silver chain on his wrist glinting in the firelight.

"What did you think of the book?" she asked, ignoring his question. "Be honest."

He reached down to his satchel. She noticed it the worn leather on it - he'd obviously been using it for years.

"Here it is." he said, handing it to her, before conjuring up another armchair for her. She sat in it tentatively.

"Tea?" he offered, reaching into his bag to take out a rather large teapot. She nodded. "How did you..," she began.

"Undetectable extension charm! I reckon performing these without a license will be outlawed by the ministry in a couple of years though," he said with a frown. There was an unmistakable hint of pride in his voice at the fact that someone had noticed what he'd done.

He poured her a cup, "Don't worry, I haven't put anything in it," he laughed. She sniffed the tea and narrowed her eyes.

"That's exactly what someone who'd have just poured in arsenic would say."

"You simply seem uneasy around me, I felt I had to justify myself." He grimaced, pouring himself a cup too. "No arsenic, just Ogg's personal Earl Grey blend. He puts in a little more bergamot than most, and adds in blackberries I believe, producing quite a delightful effect."

She raised an eyebrow. "Ogg?"

"The groundskeeper. You know, Luteus Oggsworth? Lives in a little hut next to the lake? Quite a solitary fellow, a squib, but always up for a chat about the latest gossip. Makes his own tea? And mead, now I think of it." He mused. "Though I suppose he's not going to last another fifty years, is he? Who's the gamekeeper now?"

 _This is the boy who single-handedly ruined Hagrid's life._ "Spoilers." she said with a sly smile. _Keep it together Hermione._ "Which is also why I won't be drinking your tea."

"Oh?" he asked, a hint of amusement creeping into his voice. "Not fond of Earl Grey?"

"No, no. I love Earl Grey," she smiled, tipping the contents of the cup into the fire. "Not such a big fan of veritaserum, _Tom._ As I say, I'm not telling you anything about the future."

His eyes shone menacingly in the firelight. It was getting quite dark outside, a blizzard was coming. That, and the brightness flames, made him look all the more devilish. "Veritaserum is odourless and tasteless, _my dear_. I doubt you'd be able to detect it in the tea."

She rolled her eyes. "Indeed, your tea doesn't smell of anything. The tea is _truly odourless_. You've put far too much veritaserum in, an awful waste if you ask me. It's so much it's masked the scent of the drink. And don't think I'll ever try anything you offer me ever again, Riddle."

His mouth twisted into a smirk. "My, my, aren't we the clever one Miss Granger? It was worth a try." He gazed at her for a moment, scanning her features. He tipped his tea in the fire, and ran a hand through his dark hair, his porcelain features all the brighter in the shadows. "As for your book, I must admit… Perhaps I was a little rash. It was idealistic, of course, too much so. I'm not entirely sure what the author is hoping for. I'm expecting civil rights in terms of skin colour in the muggle world to catch up with those in the wizarding world anyway in a few more years. Is this propaganda for such a movement?"

Hermione shrugged. "And the writing?"

"Not quite as bad as I thought. It's still very broken up and too episodic for my taste. As I say, the story is too idealistic."

"But… he doesn't get away in the end! Tom Robinson isn't freed. He dies. How is that in any way idealistic?" she cried.

"The characters are far too… 'good'." he wrinkled his nose at this. "Atticus Finch - and his daughter, now I think of it - is made to seem perfect in every single way. Defending the underdog, sprouting self-righteous nonsense. Too two-dimensional."

"And yet he struggles with his role as a father. He admits to being over-protective, he's self-righteous to the point where he's-" Tom placed his finger on her lips to stop her. She trembled.

He handed her another book from his satchel. _The Hunchback of Notre-Dame, by Victor Hugo._ "This has _real_ characters. It shows the truth of humanity. You will not find a single 'perfect' character, in it." He watched as her eyes scanned the pages hungrily. "Except for maybe Djali, the goat." he added with a smile.

"A Muggle book, I'm surprised." she mused.

"Victor Hugo was a squib. And a bright one at that. It hardly counts."

The subject then drifted on to the Dark Arts - once more, moral arguments were explored, once more they disagreed. Tom was horrified to find out that all of the books on the Dark Arts had disappeared from the Hogwarts Library. "All of them?! Even from the restricted section? Sweet Salazar. You do realise limiting access to books is how most oppressive political regimes start, don't you?" he'd told her. She'd laughed at that. The fact that he saw access to the Dark Arts as integral to freedom of knowledge seemed somewhat contradictory to her.

"Well, I suppose that the Dark Arts are _mentioned_ in many books. And there are books with small shreds of Dark Magic in them. You know, nasty potions, hexes and all that." She began listing the names of books she'd found and read. Tom was visibly growing more distressed by the second. Each book mentioned was met with a, 'disgusting piece of filth', 'amateurs', 'should be used to muck out the hippogriff stables, not learn from', 'obviously published by a first-year hufflepuff and 'Ogg could have written better.'

He sighed, bringing out a small book - _The Dark Arts, Divining the Hidden Depths of Magic, by Lucretia Shafiq._ In his opinion it was the best introduction to the Dark Arts written so far. "But I'm sure more must have been done in your time." he'd said.

When it came to teaching him about sincerity - Hermione had decided that the best way to do so was to test his empathy. She selected a slim red book on her bedside table. _Romeo and Juliet._ Tom eyed it disdainfully, muttering something along the lines of, 'I prefer Macbeth'. He hadn't _exactly read it, per se_ , but he knew enough about the story to think it a complete waste of time. He wanted to learn to manipulate properly, lie but appear sincere. Not fill his head with love-struct nonsense. Hermione smiled knowingly - "Read it. I want to see if you can empathise with the characters. Look carefully at _the language._ "

He'd made a grunt-like noise of half-hearted discomfort, then turned on his heel and disappeared.

She let out a sigh of relief, sank back into bed, and began to read. By the evening, she'd finished _The Hunchback of Notre Dame_ and was making progress on _The Dark Arts, Divining the Hidden Depths of Magic_ \- and it was with that book resting on her chest that she drifted off to sleep.

Her dreams were once more perturbed. Screams, cries of terror, flames, a beautiful face in the sky, with dark grey eyes and a small smile, a face which gradually crumbled away to reveal another one beneath, one with eyes of red, skin so pale it almost looked translucent, gaunt, tired features. Then laughter, a manic, cruel laugh, chasing her. She ran. The Hogwarts library became a maze in her mind, and she felt chased. She tore her way through pages and words, sprinted past letters until she reached the very last syllable of the last page on the last book, shaking, she tried to scramble her way up to the finish line, only the be held back by pale arms, she kicked and screamed and fought back, but then came the darkness. As if all the ink of the world had spilt into her mind and she was drowning. Time ceased to matter. Perhaps this was it. Perhaps this was the time to let it all end. Just lie back and disappear into the void. In her dreams, she closed her eyes. Then a voice. A calm voice sailing through the recesses of her skull with the sharp clarity of winter's dawn.

"Hermione. Hermione. Granger! For Salazar's sake won't you just wake up!"

Her eyes fluttered open. Tom. Part of her wanted to recoil back - fear perhaps. But instead it was shaking and sobbing that she threw herself into his arms, clinging onto him for dear life. She expected him to push her back. Instead he stroked her hair, whispered soothing words in her ear. He sat there, holding her for some moments.

There was a blizzard outside. Hardened pellets of ice and snow at her window. She got up, steadied herself, and closed the curtains.

"Sorry about that." she muttered. "I'm not usually this emotional. It's just been a strange couple of days." He nodded.

"What in Merlin's name are you doing here anyway?"she asked, narrowing her eyes.

He was still wearing his school clothes - well, minus the robes and the tie. He waved _Romeo and Juliet_ at her. "I've now read this three times." he said.

She lit a few candles with her wand. "Oh? Good. And what did you think?" she asked absentmindedly.

He leant back against the headboard of the bed. "I don't understand." he half whined.

"Oh? Is Muggle Shakespearean English too much for you?" she asked cooly.

He gave her an appalled look. "I've read almost all of Shakespeare's plays thank you very much. Despite his… questionable heritage. I simply hadn't read that one. And now I understand why I'd avoided it for so long."

"Is that so?" she said, grabbing a quill and parchment to make notes from. "What precisely do you not understand?"

"Is the play supposed to be a warning against rash, foolish love or an example of 'true love'?" he asked disdainfully. "What I mean is, it seems to be set over an immensely short amount of time. The two characters barely know each other before eloping. Romeo himself is shown to be prone to small bouts of infatuation. He seems enthralled by some girl called Rosaline at the start of Act I. How do we know his love for Juliet is 'pure'?"

Hermione couldn't help but smile. "If we're going to be honest about this, I also believe it serves as an example of childlike infatuation."

Tom's ears seemed to prick up at this."Go on." he smirked. "What was the purpose of me reading this then?"

She tucked a stray curl behind her ear. "Well… Does it matter whether it was true love or not?"

He frowned, "Of course it mattered! They've thrown their lives away for nothing! You've read Juliet's speech, I take it, before she takes the sleeping potion? She speaks of being practically half-dead! Her descriptions of being entombed alive a horrific! How could she foolishly waste her life in such a way, for a ridiculous concept such as 'love'? It's ludicrous!" he cried, his gestures becoming more and more animated as he began to quote from the play.

She smiled, then began to laugh.

He paused, his arms hanging in mid air, like some puppet caught mid-act. "What's so funny?"

"Why do you care?" she asked with a sly smile. "Why do you care so much, Tom? It's not your life. It shouldn't matter to you if they've wasted theirs, now should it?"

He lowered his arms. "I'm not sure."

"It's because Shakespeare creates sympathetic characters. You at the very least sympathise with them. He creates an attachment to them. If you want to be able to manipulate people properly, you have to let them form an attachment to you," she said, before hastily adding, "Don't try with me, we're already linked enough." she grinned, showing her bracelet. "But, can I suggest you try to craft yourself into a sympathetic character? Then test out that persona on other people." _What in Merlin's name was she saying? Teaching him to become even worse than he already was?_

He sank down on the bed, propping his head up on his hands to gaze up at her. "What did you think of…"

And they talked.

They spent the whole night speaking, debating - at times arguing. They covered Hugo's characterisation of Esmerelda, ' _But you see Tom, I do pity her though.' 'She was foolish Hermione. You can't have sympathy for a fool. She shouldn't have fallen in love with Phoebus.' 'It's not her fault.' 'Of course it was. It's her mind, is it not?'_ , the Dark Arts, Arithmancy, argued intensely about Divination _'A complete and utter waste of time.'_ she'd snapped, then travel. He wanted to see the world too. _You know, there are some wizards in Albania who've found a way to fly wandless. I'm going to learn from them,_ he'd said. She smiled at that. It had sounded interesting. She wanted to go to Neuschwanstein castle in Bavaria, _I read that King Ludwig II became mad because of a curse cast upon him as a child. It gave him visions of another realm, hence his obsession with fairy-tales. His castles are supposed to be beautiful._ He'd stared at her, then smiled, speaking more energetically about his plans, what he wanted to see, do, learn, discover.

And they spoke.

Until dawn crept in and the sounds of the first birds of the morning sang them to sleep.

 **A/N - Hi! Thank you so much for reading - please do review! (Thank you very much mama123 and JuliSt for reviewing. :) I really appreciate it!) Constructive criticism, comments, anything is very much appreciated, as this is my first story, so I'm keen to improve. I'll be updating at the very least every week - but at the moment it might even be daily. (Also - can I say, I do actually love** ** _To Kill a Mockingbird_** **\- Tom does bash it quite a bit (so.. spoilers ahead for** ** _To Kill a Mockingbird!)_** **But even with the spoilers, it's still an amazing book, so if you haven't read that, or the Hunchback of Notre-Dame, please do!) The fic should be picking up the pace a bit more next chapter hopefully - I just thought it important for them to talk. Anyway, have a lovely day.**

 **Calliope**


	4. Chapter 4

When Tom woke, Hermione was gone.

He cast a quick eye around the room. So this was the Gryffindor's girls dormitory. He found it a tad draughty for his taste. He had to admit that he'd perhaps even enjoyed last night's conversation. Though the girl was a little naive, she was curious about the world, which pleased him. Her thirst for knowledge could have made her a fierce rival had she lived in his time - no, they were too similar - a loyal follower, perhaps? It was a shame her heritage would probably alienate her from his cause. That said, she had been so… understanding. True, the conversation last night had not exactly focused on his more political plans, but he could tell that there was something in her that could sympathise with him. They had a common love of magic, of knowledge. How could she ever disagree with him? Surely she too would understand that the wizarding race, as the strongest, should rule over the weaker muggle race? How could she not? He smirked.

There was however, another pressing issue. Since Granger was a mudblood, attending Hogwarts, it clearly showed that his plans - as they now stood - had at least been through a twenty or so years setback. His current projects didn't allow for mudbloods to drift in major wizarding circles. He didn't expect her to recognise him as the fearsome public figure he must be in her time - he was sure that he would refashion his image at some point. Perhaps he could call on her help for that?

That said, the whole 'blood purity' issue was beginning to frustrate him a little. After having spoken extensively to his fellow 'purebred' Slytherins, he'd reached the conclusion that too much focus on blood purity - though perfectly acceptable back in Salazar Slytherin's time, could lead to a rather inbred mess. That, and squibs, it would seem. He frowned. Of course, that didn't mean that purebloods should suddenly start mixing with muggles - it would be folly, almost like breeding humans with monkeys. Quite distasteful. However, mudbloods did clearly have some wizarding blood within them - denying such a fact would be ludicrous. The occasional breeding of a gifted mudblood - or better still, half-blood - from a strong pure family could actually prove quite beneficial.

Hmm. Nonetheless, he needed funds for his cause. Suggesting such an outlandish idea to his fellow house members - who though inbred, had the money and the loyalty - would not do. No, no. Better to carry on with his plans as they stood, and maybe ten years into his… ah, political career, he might make a few allowances for gifted mudbloods. This would enable that girl to go to school, and the timeline would remain intact. He grinned. Perfect. Now, if only he could introduce the concept of-

"What in Merlin's name are you still doing here?!"

Tom's neck jerked up. "I've just woken up. You're not going to kick me out, are you?" he asked innocently.

Hermione sat next to him on the bed, glaring at him. "It's incredibly risky." she said. "I brought back some breakfast though." she added, breaking a piece of brioche in half. "We can share."

He grinned, picking up the larger half of the two. She raised an eyebrow. "It's my birthday!" he said defensively.

"Oh. I didn't know that. Happy Birthday!" she said, forcing a smile. The fact that she still didn't know how to control his comings and goings worried her.

"I'm only joking. My birthday's on New Years' Eve, I think." he grinned. "Three days away."

"What do you mean, 'you think'?" she snapped, visibly miffed by how small her breakfast now looked.

"Well, I can't exactly remember the event, now can I?" he shot back acidly. She rolled her eyes.

"Yes, but surely you celebrate it."

"What's the point? There are probably only two birthdays worth celebrating." he said calmly, "My seventeenth - also known as legal freedom in the wizarding world. So no more trying to find ways to sneak around ministry wards to practice magic in.. odd places. And my twenty first - legal freedom in the muggle world."

"It's eighteen nowadays." she murmured.

"What is?"

"The legal muggle age of adulthood in Britain. Strange, I didn't think you'd care much what muggles thought, as a supremacist." she said absentmindedly, preoccupying herself with the coffee. A vague memory of Harry telling her that Voldemort had been raised in a muggle orphanage drifted into her mind.

"I was raised around muggles." he said simply. It was common knowledge, that poor, gifted, Tom Riddle, obviously of decent wizarding stock had been raised near muggles. A rags to riches story. Raised in an orphanage however… not that common knowledge. He toyed with the prospect of telling her. No. It was always good to have a sob story hidden up one's sleeve, he'd save that tale for later. "Besides, what makes you think I'm a supremacist?" he added, quickly changing the subject.

"Your general demeanour." she said, avoiding his gaze, "You clearly believe that wizards - pureblood in particular - are superior to muggles."

"Don't you? Surely you understand it's purely down to natural selection. Wizards are simply stronger than muggles. It's illogical for the latter to rule over us."

"Funny, you say 'us'." she muttered.

"Well, you're a witch, aren't you? I mean, I'm not going to say that your lack of blood purity isn't an issue - as it clearly is. You weren't raised in a wizarding environment, you don't have that heritage. But you've overcome your handicap rather well." he said, flashing her what he felt was an encouraging smile, trying to put her at ease.

"As have you, _Tom_." she said, returning the smile, and gritting her teeth. _What an arse,_ she thought, _and this is indeed how mass-murderers are created. He thinks far too highly of himself._

He narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean?"

"You were raised in a muggle environment. Do you have any wizarding heritage?" She inquired innocently, waiting for him to react. Surely he couldn't resist speaking of his blood heritage in front of her? _After all, if releasing a giant snake in the castle wasn't attention seeking, she didn't know what was. Had he even done that yet? What year did Harry say Riddle had been in? Was it…_

"I have reason to believe my mother was a daughter of the Gaunt family. In fact, I am rather certain of it. Unfortunately, that is all, nothing truly _exciting_." he said with a half-smile, his tone growing more and more acidic. Revealing his status as heir of Slytherin was reckless. If she was a smart girl, she'd work it out. That said, Granger's mind looked fiercely at work on something else entirely. "Indeed, I suppose I have overcome my… 'handicap'."

"How did you get here?" she asked, breaking away from the family subject. The curiosity was too much. "My book is coming to pieces, and I'm afraid to admit I don't know how you make it between our two different times."

 _Oh. What a simple question._ "Picture the place you want to appear to, make an Odin symbol plus that of _lighwatz_ on the floor in ash, make a half spin and off you trot. Go back to the exact place you landed in to do the second half spin to return. The time element seems to take care of itself. Odin's sign is the travel element, and lighwatz binds our timelines together. Now that we're linked," he added, gesturing to his wrist, "our timelines will definitely be consistent."

She scanned his face, trying to discern whether he'd just lied to her. He seemed to sense that.

"There's no point in lying to you. I need this partnership as much as you do. In fact probably more so," he added, "I've got some runes I need help translating anyway."

"What kind of runes?" she asked suspiciously.

"Low-Elf. They seem to have a slight Franco-Germanic twist to them too. I'm adding them to a Protean Charm, or trying to. I'm assuming you've heard of Protean Charms?" he asked.

"I can cast a Protean Charm." she said rather haughtily, remembering the previous year's DA galleons.

"As can I. This, however, is much more interesting," he said, his grey eyes glinting. "I'm thinking of binding the charm to a human body." He checked his watch. "Unfortunately I have to go. I've an appointment with the headmaster." he frowned. "Not sure why though. I'll drop off some books on the subject this evening."

 _A human body? What kind of sick-_ "I-I can't this evening. How about tomorrow? Same time as usual."

He nodded, and with a turn, he was gone.

The next day and a half was spent on her doing more research than she'd ever done before on Protean Charms. Fixing such a charm on the body would be incredibly difficult. There were several things to consider… the duration of the charm was always an issue - whilst fixing the charm on the galleons, whose state barely altered, had been difficult enough, fixing them on a growing, ageing human body seemed nigh impossible. Wouldn't it almost irrevocably damage the subject? What if the person on whom it was to be cast rejected it? And that was only if they were a muggle. Should the recipient of the charm be a witch or wizard, there was a high chance their magic might tamper with the charm. Then there was also the manifestation of the charm. What would it look like? Merlin, what was its purpose? _Why does Tom Riddle of all people want to cast an altered protean charm on a human body? What does he want?_

When he'd come that evening, she'd taken a quick glance at his runes, then decided that she needed more time to look through them properly.

Evening came. Though she'd finished deciphering the runes earlier that day, she was still no closer to understanding what it was that he wanted to do with the charm.

It was only at four am, on the morning of the third day that it hit her. She'd received a letter from Harry that day - no use expecting one from one, the boy was hopeless when it came to keeping up a proper correspondence - and a conversation they'd had regarding the DA resurfaced in her mind. Her idea for the changing galleons had come from the dark mark, hadn't it?

Grabbing some ash from the fire, she drew Odin's travel runes on her arm, turned on her heel, and landed with a terrific crash at the side of.. a bed?

Dishevelled, drunk of sleeplessness, she scrambled to her feet, only to then find herself pressed to a wall, the tip of a wand pressed to her neck.

"State your business, and do so quickly, lest you wish to find yourself in excruciating pain before I slit your throat." hissed a voice.

She gritted her teeth.

"I'm warning you." said the voice icily.

"Riddle?"

"'Mione?" The wand was drawn away. _Lumos._ There stood Tom, bags under his eyes, the shadow of a beard forming across his face, seeming quite shaken. He looked somewhat paler. He'd lost weight. He began to stammer - "But how? What on earth are you doing here? I thought we'd decided-" His eyes scanned her face. "Oh Sweet Salazar. You're not-"

Hermione looked around the room. It was smaller, poorer, shabbier than she'd thought, the room was barely big enough for the one bed that was in it. What- where was she?

"Tom? What's going on?" she asked tentatively. There was something off.

"What year is it?" he asked quickly. "When have you just come from? Give me the exact date and time."

"I.. I suppose - 5am, 30th- no wait, 31st of December 1996." she said in a hushed whisper. "Tom." He wouldn't look at her. She reached out a hand to turn his face to hers. "Tom, what's wrong?"

He breathed in slowly. "Nothing. You've landed a few years late - that's all." he smiled weakly. "You're looking for the 31st of December 1943. This is indeed the thirty-first of December, just not 1943." He went over to the tiny fireplace and pulled out some ash, which he sprinkled on the floor. "I'm guessing you didn't write _lighwatz_ properly." He sighed. "For future reference, this is how it's done." he said, drawing a few symbols on the ground. "I don't often get to correct you, you know." he added with a wink. "I'm guessing you put a downwards flick on the balance symbol. It should _always_ be an upwards one. I know most textbooks say it's interchangeable," he leant in, and whispered, "you can tell we've had this conversation already, can't you?" he grinned, before resuming his lecture, "but it most certainly is not interchangeable, and _you must get it right._ "

"Oh." was all she could say. There was something unsettling about seeing him like this. That, and the added familiarity. Not a tentative friendly acquaintance's familiarity, but something older. There was something tragic in his voice, how it broke slightly at her name. "What's wrong?" she found herself asking again.

"Nothing, love." he murmured. "It's my birthday, by the way." He grinned, pulling her into a shaky hug. She felt herself tense up in his arm.

"What's wrong with you? Riddle, tell me what on earth is going on!"

He pushed her back, looking a bit sheepish. "Sorry. Couldn't help it." he rubbed the back of his neck. "Send my regards to the past, Hermione." He smiled.

And the world faded away.

This time her arrival was met with a similar threat, albeit a far more uncertain sounding one.

"State your business, and.. do so quickly lest-"

"- lest you slice my throat and put me through excruciating pain. Yes, yes, I know. Let go of me, Riddle."

"Hermione?" asked the voice.

"What's the protean charm for, Tom?" she asked acidly.

"Ah, Miss Granger." she heard him say cooly. "You've been acting… off with me these past few days - and now you turn up at five am to ask me w _hat my protean charm is for?_ " he spat. "It's for human bodies! As I have said at least a dozen times. Why else would I be needing help with the runes?!"

She conjured a few candles. Definitely the Slytherin dormitory. Dark green silks hung from the ceiling, the windows seemed to lead on to the lake of all things. A crystal chandelier, adorned with various cobwebs, hung in the middle of the room. She could hear the gentle gurgle of the water lapping at the stone walls. She expected it to be a lot colder than it was, and she found that despite the intimidating decor, the dorm felt surprisingly homely.

"Hermione?" he repeated angrily. _Ah, yes, grumpy Tom Riddle in his pyjamas. Slightly more pressing matter than the scenery._

"Are the bodies alive?" she asked hurriedly.

"Well yes, of course they're alive! I'm not going to monitor a corpse's actions, now am I?!" he replied indignantly. "What do you think I'm trying to do, keep tabs on an army of inferi? I'm not a bloody necromancer, now am I?" His eyebrows were arched, his sharp cheekbones catching the light - it gave him a rather disdainful expression.

"So 'monitoring' is what you're doing? I need to know the purpose of the charm. And what you think it'll look like. You're intent on casting it on the wearer? A mark of sorts? Can't you just settle for… I don't know, a bracelet?" she asked despairingly, growing all the more concerned. She seated herself down on the bed next to his.

"No. It'll have to be a mark." he said, shaking his head. "A tattoo, if you will. It needs to be…," he began pacing up and down the room, "Indelible. A symbol of unwavering loyalty."

"Loyalty? Whose loyalty? To whom is it directed?" she said, gathering her tangle of hair up in a knot.

"My… friends' loyalty. Their loyalty to me, of course." he smiled.

"Have you asked them whether they 'want' to be loyal?"

The girl was asking far too many questions. "That's a ludicrous question. I-You just don't understand." he sighed. "Listen, we've got a deal, haven't we?"

She gritted her teeth.

"Just see it as… _purely academic_ if it helps you sleep at night." he said, rolling his eyes. At this moment it was growing quite hard to believe that Gryffindors were supposed to be the brave ones.

Purely academic. The notion alone wouldn't be enough to quieten Hermione's conscience. That said, she was learning so much about the Dark Arts and about Riddle. The way he thought was fascinating. She didn't doubt the fact that he'd find another way to create the dark mark without her help. She was perhaps speeding up the process by… a month at most? She needed to understand this character before her. _For the greater good._

"We've helped each other, haven't we, Hermione?" he asked softly. He reached out to grab a book on the bookshelf next to his bed. "Have you read this?" he asked. _Pictures from Italy, Charles Dickens._

She'd expected some book on dark magic. Not a book of travels by Dickens, again, a muggle author. She shook her head. She'd read Oliver Twist, Great Expectations, David Copperfield, most short stories - his most famous works - but not this one.

"I miss Dickens - or at least being able to openly admire his work." He thumbed the pages absentmindedly. "I always feel like I'm travelling through continental Europe when reading this. It may be a very muggle-centric Europe - but nonetheless… Have you been to Italy?"

"Once, yes." She didn't have anything to give him. "Wait a moment." she said, disappearing. She returned a few minutes later - this time, the spell had worked perfectly, she noted with relief - and handed him a book in return. _Jane Eyre._ He raised an eyebrow. "Brontë? Really, Granger?"

"It raises interesting moral questions, the nature of loyalty, forgiveness, you know, those things." she smiled weakly. "I'll need a few days to finish translating the runes," she sighed, "I take it you're already translating the second half of the material?"

He nodded, as if to say, _two heads are better than one_.

"Give me a few days to work on it," she said, "I'll be done in a week at the latest. By that time people will have started coming back from the holidays. We should meet some time after that."

"How does the seventh of January sit with you?" he asked, taking out his diary to find the date. Hermione's determination wavered a little at the sight of it and she thought of Ginny. Ginny who would weep to see her in such a position.

"The seventh is fine. We can't meet in my dorm anymore though," she said, "I would suggest the Room of Requirement, you might know it as the come and go room but it's a place I'm keen to avoid. Don't worry," she said, for he looked surprise at his knowledge of it, "I'm not really avoiding it for any sinister reason," she just wasn't terribly keen to return there after last year's events, "nor do many people know about it either." She paused, "There's a rather spacious, yet brilliantly concealed room behind a statue of Morgan LeFay in the restricted section of the library. Very few people know about it. In fact, I don't think anyone ever uses it in my time. You just tap the statue twice on the nose to get in. How does that sound?"

"I think I know the place. Same time?"

"Yes." She turned to disappear, but not before adding a small,

"Happy Birthday, Tom."

 **A/N - Hi! Thanks for reading, please do review :) any comments are greatly appreciated! (Thank you so so much to mama123, JuliSt and Beth for reviewing!) I think once Hermione begins to witness a more active conflict between her views about the Tom that she knows and what Harry is learning about in his Dumbledore lessons, things should be interesting.**

 **Just to clarify a few things timeline wise - this is the year Riddle opens the Chamber of Secrets - his diary is as such intact, but still looks like the one that Hermione would have seen in her second year. Moreover, on Hermione's side, the trio don't know about Horcruxes yet (only the prophecy). Harry does get told by Dumbledore about Horcruxes at the start of the Spring term (so pretty much the week after these events above have occurred in Hermione's life). I do want to stay relatively canon compliant on that front (Rowling is Queen!). And of course, I make no claim to the various characters and universe this is set in - these all belong to the wonderful J.K. Rowling. I'm just borrowing them and playing around for a while. :)**

 **Have a wonderful day!**

 **Calliope**


	5. Chapter 5

"That's pretty." Lavender had said, eyeing the golden chain at Hermione's wrist. "Who gave you that?"

"A friend." Hermione had replied, refusing to look up from _Pictures from Italy._

"Oohh!" had been the squeal from her dorm-mates. "Krum again?!" Silence. "No? Well, is he handsome at least?"

Hermione scoffed. "Who said it was a 'he'?"

"Only boys give jewellery, Hermione darling. So? Spill." Parvati had smiled, seating herself on Lavender's bed and giving Hermione a look of extreme interest. Lavender's little pig-like eyes shone with glee, or was it greed? Either way, she seemed to be eagerly anticipating this new piece of gossip, which her heavily lip glossed mouth would doubtless repeat almost immediately.

"Is he a muggle? Does he even know you're a witch? Ooh no!" Lavender had cried dramatically, her hands on her chest, batting her eyelashes. "Don't tell us! This is so good! Ah, the perils of forbidden love." she'd sighed. "Now you see, if only Ron would-"

Forbidden love. Hermione tried not to roll her eyes. She wasn't even friends with Riddle. Well, they were admittedly swapping books, but that was more because they seemed to have similar tastes - and it was so rare to find someone who did. Besides, he hadn't really 'given' her the bracelet. They'd formed a contract. It wasn't like she could take off this 'jewellery' either. _Shackles are hardly a lover's gift_ , she thought bitterly, _even if this chain is rather pretty._

But then there was the chance meeting she'd had with the older Riddle. The man who'd greeted her couldn't have been that far away in Riddle's future - and thus in her future. He'd treated her with alarming familiarity. It was as though she were an old friend, no, more than that. _More than that? More than what?_ She shook her head. _Impossible._ He'd called her 'Mione', good godric, he'd even called her _'love'._ No, she must have misheard. Another thing - there was such sorrow in his voice - not something she'd have expected from the Dark Lord himself. _Parting is such sweet sorrow._

Three options were drawn up in her mind - three versions of a potential timeline. She pictured them - mapping them out like glistening spider's webs - silken strands all leading back to him.

The first - delusion. Either Tom Riddle in the future was delusional - and somehow recognised her as a friend. Or her mind was at fault, and she'd misinterpreted his words and actions. _Misinterpreting a hug and a wink is rather difficult,_ she'd thought.

The second - friendship, _or something else._ _At some point in the near future, I, Hermione Jean Granger, muggle-born witch extraordinaire, form some kind of attachment to Tom Marvolo Riddle, pureblood supremacist and murderous sociopath, who has not only spent his whole life fighting against what I stand for, but is also singlehandedly responsible for the orphaned state of a beloved friend, and the nightmares of another._

This seemed the most unlikely. Harry had suffered so much due to Voldemort. And Ginny. Good Godric, Ginny.

Her first year had been a mess - for the next two years, she'd struggled with insomnia, the ghost of Tom Riddle still haunting her nights. It was during those long summer nights at the Burrow, when Ginny had wet the bed in fear, when Ginny had cried and screamed in her sleep, when Ginny had imagined the figure of a fearsome boy crouched over her bed, whispering horrors in her ears - that Hermione had stayed awake and read to the girl. She would tell Ginny stories, watch over her until morning swept her friend's fears away. Although Ginny had shown herself to be extremely brave, now nightmare free and very happy indeed, Hermione could never forgive the creature that had brought her friend's childhood to such an abrupt and cruel end.

The third option - deception. He'd finally learnt to lie convincingly. He had, after all, sounded incredibly sincere. A small smirk tugged at the corners. She was a good teacher, then.

 _Whatever helps you sleep at night._

\- "Well? Hermione?"

She looked up. The whole dorm was listening.

"What's he like? Is he good looking?"

What was he like? _Oh, nothing, he's just a mass murderer who hasn't quite gone on a killing spree yet, but doubtless he will soon. Don't worry, I'm sure he'll let me be privy to his hit list once he does draw it up, would you like me to pass on your names?_

"He's very smart. And yes, I suppose, in a certain light, he is quite good looking." she mumbled. "But it's really not like that. He's a bit of a pompous prick, if we're going to be perfectly honest."

"Language Hermione!" squealed Lavender. "Don't worry though, the jerks are always softies at heart - I mean, if you look at Ron and me," she began, before launching into a small monologue regarding her relationship with Ronniekins. Hermione felt something in her stomach twist. She had definitely been jealous of Lavender when the two had started their relationship. Was she in love with Ron? She'd fancied him at one point. He made her laugh, and… he was sweet, in a slightly oblivious way. But did she like him now? No. Something had changed. She wasn't jealous of Lavender because Lavender had Ron - she was jealous of Lavender because she had _something, someone._ Someone to turn to when she felt scared or sad - someone who would be there for her alone. She was jealous of their closeness. And yes, perhaps she was frustrated at the fact that someone as foolish as Lavender, who hadn't worked seriously a day in her life, could be happy. Happy without even trying.

 _I'm becoming quite bitter, aren't I?_ she thought to herself, stroking Crookshanks.

But no. It really wasn't like that with Riddle.

She'd carefully avoided Harry for the past few days. Guilt perhaps? That evening, it was easier than usual to get away. Harry had one of his Dumbledore sessions, Ron was off… _frolicking_ with Lavender. She wrinkled her nose at the thought. It was easy to sneak over to the hidden room in the restricted section and meet Tom.

He arrived, punctual as usual, carrying a selection of books with him. He'd barely looked up to greet her.

"These," he said proudly, a smirk plastered across his face as he pointed to the pile on the left, "are for you. There are books on simple Dark Spells, the history of the Dark Arts, as well as a biography of Herpo the Foul - he's very misunderstood, I can guarantee that." He then moved to the pile on the right. "All these are about the Protean Charm." He looked up, a hint of possessiveness creeping into his voice. "We share _those_." _He doesn't seem to understand what sharing means, does he?_ she thought wryly.

He reached into his satchel, and pulled out _Jane Eyre_. "And this is yours."

"What did you think?" she asked, taking it back and seating herself at the table.

He shrugged. "Sentimental. Any reason why you picked it out for me?"

"Why did you give me _Pictures from Italy_?" she questioned, returning his book.

He sat opposite her, taking out some parchment, a quill and ink from his bag, before opening one of the books from the pile on the right. He scratched his chin with the tip of the quill, then dipped it in the ink, pausing over the page for an excruciating amount of time and beginning to make notes. He paused. "It's rude to answer a question by another question." he offered simply, his dark eyes scanning the book.

She sighed, before taking out the notes she'd made on the charm throughout the week, and passing them over to him. He eyed them suspiciously, before his expression shifted to one of slight appreciation.

"I lent you _Jane Eyre_ , because I was hoping it would present a different side to loyalty than the one which you seem to expect from your followers." she said finally.

"Followers?" he asked, a small smile tugging at his lips, "Who said anything about followers? This is quite good by the way," he added, gesturing to her research. "I disagree with regards to your substituting my Koine Greek for Ionic Greek in the charmwork."

"Oh come on, they're clearly followers!" she scoffed. "A body-protean charm!? It's irrational. As is your dismissal of my Ionic element. More specifically Old Ionic. Koine is essentially a simplified version of Ionic Greek. Ionic Greek is far more analytical. Your spell requires detail. For this, the language needs to be able to convey a heightened level of analysis. Q.E.D. You need to use Old Ionic Greek. Opting for Koine is lazy."

He rolled his eyes. "Fine. I don't think the spell needs to be quite that exact, but alright. You can redesign the Greek element." He pushed the parchment over to her. She eyed his neat, cursive script with dislike. Her handwriting was good, but not quite _that_ good. "And whilst we're at it," he said, "the loyalty Jane has for Rochester is irrational too. The man has treated her incredibly poorly."

"Aha!" she cried triumphantly. "You said that it was irrational _'too'_ \- implying you believe your followers' dedication to you does lack reason!"

He shrugged, leaning back in his chair. "Well, I never claimed their judgement was sound, now did I?" he said with a slow grin. She smirked. They sat in silence for a while, each examining their respective books. She liked the stillness, as did he, she supposed. In turn, Tom gazed at the girl sitting across the table. He was surprised to find himself rather enjoying the moment. It was good to be alone - but not _lonely_. There was something comforting about the scratch of her quill across the parchment, the flurry of words and letters that followed. She seemed totally absorbed in the task at hand, her eyebrows knitting together in dislike at bits of stray latin which he seemed to have let drift in to pollute the greek, a few angry curls wandering onto her face.

"What's so wrong with Jane and Rochester?" she asked absentmindedly, correcting a verb and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Nothing's ' _wrong'_. But again, it's irrational. Unconditional love? Not only had he lied _about having an ridiculously violent wife_ , but they lack chemistry." He wrinkled his nose at one of her suggestions. "Le Fay's formula is preferable to that of Mancini's. It's far more reliable - and Morgan le Fay had closer ties to the elfin world anyway, I'd trust her judgement more." he added, passing the formula across the table.

She sighed. "I think they have great chemistry. So, to you, the foundations of a good romantic relationship involve both honesty and chemistry? Oh, and yes to the Morgan le Fay formula - just make sure you use the octagonal formation."

"I'm not a huge believer in romance. I lack the time." he said. "But were there such a thing as a 'good romantic relationship', then yes, honesty and chemistry would be important."

He'd passed on a rough version the altered formula to her. She'd grinned. "Now all we need to do is add in the Greek, then you're good to go!"

They finished up the final plans of the charm at around two in the morning. "The first true example of a human body-protean charm in the history of witchcraft." Tom had said. And Hermione was surprised in realising that she felt pride in this. He'd brought champagne with him, somehow. They'd toasted to their success, then spent the rest of the night talking.

 _I love the Brontë Sisters,_ she'd said with a small smile, _especially Anne Brontë's work._ He'd grinned, _Anne Brontë's work is the only one I can stand. I thought the ending to 'Agnes Grey' was a bit of a cop-out though._ She'd shaken her head at that, s _he deserved a happy ending._ He'd shrugged at the comment. She'd asked about his motives behind lending her _Pictures from Italy_ \- he'd just wanted someone to talk to about travelling.

He was filled with hopes for the future, marvellous plans for new and wondrous magic - spells she'd never dreamt could exist, let alone thought of casting. His mind - his beautiful, beautiful mind was an ocean of possibilities, stories, unfinished spellwork, dreams for the world, places he wanted to visit, books, art, music, poetry - he was fascinated by everything - and all she wanted to do was drown in him, forget everything, forget who he was, who she was, why they were there. _But when will you find all the time to go to these places? Won't it take long? There's no possible way anyone could fit in so much into a human life!_ she'd laughed. He'd smiled, a small, clever smile, _You'll see. Who said our lives had to be short? Who said they had to be finite?_ And perhaps it was drink, or perhaps it was merely the lack of sleep or the fact that somewhere, deep down, she too had felt the pressures of time against knowledge, that she'd asked, _How would you do it?_

And he, evasive as always, had whispered in return, _You'll see, Hermione._ He'd then searched her eyes, and asked, _But will you join me? Come with me and spend forever seeing this world?_

She couldn't remember what she'd said to that, but when she'd returned to her dorm with the promise of meeting him again the following week, she'd fallen asleep with a smile.

The next day, she'd started reading Herpo the Foul's biography. The man was brilliant, but clearly a lunatic - basilisks, curses and spells, violent and twisted ways of warping the soul into immortality - she'd never heard of a horcrux before - whoever was mad enough to make one had to be a truly vile character but yes, though the man was a lunatic, he did have his moments. Herpo was a philosopher, a clever one at that, a friend of Plato's, occasionally dabbling in politics and the arts. Was he misunderstood though? No, he was far too cruel for that.

Her day had been a long and tedious one. Snape was hardly an encouraging Defence teacher. Her arithmancy lessons seemed to be getting progressively easier throughout the year, _a little counterintuitive_ , she thought bitterly, and Lavender was becoming gradually even more and more of a leech on Ron.

Harry had seemed tired most of the day. Why, she couldn't tell. It was only once the three of them were alone, Harry, Ron and her, that he told them.

 _"_ _He's immortal."_ he'd said, shaking, his head between his hands.

He'd begun to explain the concept to them, and she'd just sat there, numb. Occasionally trying to nod. Something about the diary and a ring on Dumbledore's finger. And more. "What did you say they were called, Harry?" a voice had said. A voice. Her voice. Oh. _Am I the one talking?_ Her mind had thought.

"Horcruxes, Hermione. Horcruxes."

 _You'll see, Hermione._

 **A/N - Hi! Thank you so much for reading, I hope you're enjoying the story so far! :) Please review!**

 **(Thank you very very much to BlackFlameLady, JuliSt, mama123, Beth, Vaneesa85, the unnamed Guest ;) and CloudyDream for your wonderful reviews! I really appreciate it! [and CloudyDream, I admire your perseverance in reviewing! My emails are a bit weird, so I don't get proper notifications unfortunately…Sorry, I'm not sure that really helps. But thank you very much for reviewing! :)] )**

 **So, Hermione's growing quite fond of Tom, and perhaps he's growing quite fond of her, too. Horcruxes aren't exactly fantastic for spurring on relationships though… (… or are they? Sorry, just kidding. Anyway, horcruxes = bad news.)**

 **Have a lovely day!**

 **Calliope**

 **[Also, here's a 'little' side note on Ancient Greek, and why Tom's spellwork was almost lazy.**

 **So - from my limited knowledge of Ancient Greek (three years of study people, three years! So.. er, yeah. Not a lot :p So please feel free to correct me on this if you disagree!) - Koine Greek, popularised mainly by Alexander the Great's army, is indeed far more simplified than Ionic Greek (sort of Homer & co.). Some scholars believe Ionic Greek to be the 'ancestor of Koine Greek' in a way - this would make some sense. **

**For the uninitiated - Ancient Greek is bizarre. Wonderful, but strange.**

 **The aorist/past tense, adapts greatly depending on whether the verb is a 'strong' aorist or a 'weak' aorist. Whilst in most languages the stem of the verb doesn't change depending on the tense, it can do so in ancient greek if we are looking at a 'strong' aorist. A 'weak' aorist will just add on the aorist endings to the stem of the verb -** ** _like a normal, sane, regular language should do._** **In Ionic Greek - there are definitely those two types of aorist. In Koine Greek, there is a tendency to just completely ignore fundamental grammar rules and make almost everything look like a weak aorist -** ** _which is cheating_** **. (Calliope, did you just criticise Alexander the Great? Why yes, I did.) Koine Greek does loads of these little simplifications, which render the language far less exact. This is why you must always trust Hermione, as opposed to Tom, who tries to cut corners through over-simplification. Admittedly, I may be wrong on this {I hope I'm not?} - so if anyone knows more on the topic and wants to correct me, do let me know, and I'll make some changes!]**


	6. Chapter 6

He was late that evening.

She'd mentally prepared herself for this. She had a plan. She couldn't dissuade him from making the horcruxes. That would disrupt the timeline or at the very least lead to a paradox - a vicious state of limbo.

No. Hermione drummed her fingers on the biography of Herpo the Foul, which she'd analysed in detail. There was a great deal in there about how to make a horcrux - not precise instructions, of course, doubtless Riddle had kept those - but the gist of it was there. There was nothing on how to recognise a horcrux though. She needed to find out whether he'd made any horcruxes, or planning to do so, and most importantly _what they looked like._

According to Herpo, making more than one horcrux would be madness. Yet Harry and Dumbledore had conclusive evidence that Riddle had made at least two, and that the missing memory Harry had yet to retrieve from Slughorn would tell them the remaining number, or at the very least give them more information on Tom and his horcruxes.

But then even if she did find out find out how many he had, or what they would look like, how would she tell them without them suspecting that she'd made a deal with the devil himself?

 _Focus Hermione. Information first, then draw up a plan of action._

Still… The idea of the boy she'd been talking to making a horcrux - an abomination of nature - was unfathomable. Surely not her Tom, they were too similar. _Her Tom._

 _Since when is he 'my Tom'?_ she thought angrily, _How is he any different from Lord Voldemort? Is he different?_

The obvious answer - he hasn't killed anyone yet. _At least not to my knowledge._ _That, and we swap books,_ she muttered to herself. _Very smart Hermione,_ she told herself sarcastically, _obviously the little book club we've got going on completely rules out him being a psychotic serial killer come megalomaniac._

Then, there was question of the older Tom still floated about in her mind - what was that about? And most importantly could-

"Ah. Yes. Apologies for being late."

Hermione looked up. Tom stood leaning against the doorway, trying to his best to appear as nonchalant as possible, yet he looked slightly dishevelled. His normally perfectly arranged dark hair was tousled, deep bags were forming under his eyes, his uniform badly needed to be ironed and the droop in his posture had been unmistakable dictated by sleep deprivation. He also looked as though he'd just been standing in the rain - though patches of his uniform were now dry, his hair was still a little wet - the spellwork was so sloppy, it must have been done in a hurry.

Her first instinct was to ask him how he was. She didn't. She didn't even meet his gaze.

He frowned, and hung up his robes. He then took out some notes which he slid her across the table. A list of cities and towns. Rome, Florence, Verona, Venice, Milan, Barcelona, Madrid, Marseilles, Europe's finest, all laid out like some kind of comical shopping list. Some places had been obviously added in later on, _Neuschwanstein Castle_ had been rapidly scribbled in. Slowly she began to recognise some of the names as being those of places she'd told him she wanted to see or loved.

He rubbed the back of his neck, and looked rather sheepish. "I mean, obviously there's a bit of a war going on on my side - but I doubt Grindelwald will last. It shouldn't interfere too much with the plans." _A bit of a war? Was he referring to the absolute carnage that would be the Second World War? What plans?_ Hermione couldn't help but look at him disbelievingly.

He lifted the sheet to reveal a map of Europe under it. It looked as though the continent had been split up. Someone had circled different areas with a quill and numbered them. This was worse than she thought. She hadn't realised he'd already thought of dominating Europe this early on.

He shook off the last bits of rain from his hair. "For Salazar's sake Hermione." he laughed a little nervously, "Say something. I mean obviously tackling Europe all in one go is unrealistic. I just thought dividing it up made sense."

She remained completely silent, her hands gripping her skirt so tightly in an attempt to control her temper that she could feel her knuckles going numb. _Had he gone insane? Was he truly sharing those plans with her? And more importantly - how dare he? How dare he presume to butcher an entire-_

"Is this about Italy?" he asked, looking at the country which he'd spilt into two separate areas. Now the confusion was really settling into his voice. _He doesn't know how to manage me,_ she realised, _there's a bit of panic when he speaks._ A far less emotional side of her thought - w _e need to work on concealing it_. Riddle frowned. "I mean, I just felt it would be best to divide it up culturally, which is why I thought we'd do the North first and then the South. I'm hoping to devote at the very least one month per area."

Once more, there was utter silence. She bit her lip - so hard it would seem, that the skin cracked. A sharp metallic taste now sat at the tip of her tongue. He seemed to notice her discomfort. It did not please him.

In one swift movement he grabbed the map, violently ripping it in half. "Fine." he spat, his eyes darkening, "Don't come visit Europe with me. I'll travel alone. For Merlin's sake, you could at least have told me to keep quiet before I made a fool of myself!"

"Visit?" was all she said, dumbfounded.

"Yes, visit! What did you think this was? A bloody geography lesson?!"

She couldn't help but make a snort of laughter, before summoning the torn parchment and mending it with her wand.

"What's so funny?" he snapped.

"I-I- Oh never mind. I thought you meant something else." she smiled. "It's a relief actually."

His ears seemed to prick up at that. "Does that mean you're coming?" he asked tentatively. "I do usually prefer travelling alone."

She raised an eyebrow and looked him straight in the eyes. "Then why are you inviting me?" she asked cooly, not breaking eye contact.

He laughed, and leant down so that his face was just inches away from hers, whispering in her ear, his cool lips grazing her cheek, "I'd tell you, but then I'd have to kill you."

She gulped. Her stomach twisted itself in knots, she could feel her face growing hot. She looked away, and her gaze fell on the book on Herpo the Foul.

"Tell me about Horcruxes."

The atmosphere in the room shifted immediately. It was as though a glacial storm had swept through the air - chilling her to the bone. A small smirk played across Tom's lips. His grey eyes seemed to gain a steely tint to them.

"What makes you ask that, Miss Granger?" he murmured. There was something in the way he was looking at her that made her uncomfortable. A certain hunger behind his eyes, like some starving wolf readying itself for dinner.

She pushed the book across the table. "You leant me this. And you seem to labour under the delusion that death can be conquered."

"Not conquered, Hermione. Crushed, trampled." he began to pace around the room. "When I meet Death, it'll be only to grab him by the neck and strangle him."

"So you don't deny it? Have you already created a Horcrux?" Her voice shook at her words.

"No. Not yet. And I doubt I will any time soon."

 _And yet, the diary will be made into one a few months from now._

"But- why?" was all she could say.

"Why?"

"Why would you want to be immortal? Why the horcrux? How could you do that to another human being?" _How could you do that to yourself?_

He sank back down in his chair, massaging his temples. "Because I know what Death looks like." he murmured. "When I was seven, I- that is to say, they took us to a cave, me and two other kids. I thought we'd have fun. I could do magic, you see," his fingers began to twirl a quill which had been lying on the table, he avoided her gaze, "I hadn't realised - I was young. There was an old fisherman that lived nearby. He'd been sent to look for us. He wasn't a kind man, you see. Perhaps a bit too fond of choir boys for my taste. And I had such a wonderful singing voice as a kid," he laughed mirthlessly, "Anyway, he always hated me. I thought it would be fun to make him pay." He flicked his gaze back up to meet hers. "I tortured him." He put the quill down. "He screamed you know. And maybe I hurt him a little more than he deserved. Maybe I enjoyed it. But I still remember his limp body, hanging off a rocky crag in the distance, neck twisted, eyes empty, dried blood like crimson ribbon on the waves. His body was so strange," he chuckled, "he looked like a puppet whose strings had been cut off."

He licked his lips. "And I realised that death is a beautiful and cruel thing. For there is nothing after the last flicker of life has left your mind. Nothing but the void. Oblivion." His voice grew hollow. "There's no heaven. No hell. Just the dark. No awareness that you are, that you ever were, that you could ever be anything but the great emptiness beyond." He clenched his fists.

"I'm not a puppet Hermione. I refuse to drown in the darkness. I don't care how many bodies I have to claw my way past to get to the light. I don't care how much blood I spill. I am never going back to the dark, do you understand me?" He was shaking. He looked - exposed, vulnerable. Yes, he was frightening, but-

"So, why the horcrux, you ask?" he added, "You see, a horcrux makes you immortal in the purest sense. You cannot die - because all pieces of your soul cannot die at once. If you were to split your soul, hide it away - it could go anywhere. It's not confined by this hollow shell of dying flesh. _I live on._ It's not only that I can't be killed - _I can't die._ It's the only way."

"But immortality - Tom. That's… That would be torture." she sighed, "You'd be alone. Forever."

He looked up, his usual half smile tugging once more at his lips. "Worried for my wellbeing, Granger? Think I'm going to be lonely? You could join me, you know." He grabbed her hand. "The whole of time, the whole of the world - eternity at our feet - all the cities and sights of the earth at our doorstep. Think of all we could learn, think of all we could see and achieve! The art, the smells, the people, the books, the music and magic - magic everywhere." His eyes burned brighter than she'd ever seen them before. "You and I could be great, you know."

She shook her head. It was strange. She felt - was it sadness? A regret of some sort. As though someone were pulling at her heartstrings, knotting them in her chest. "I couldn't. Not for the whole of eternity. And you shouldn't either." She lifted a hand to cup his cheek. "It will destroy you. You'd be paying for it with _your soul_ , Tom." Her hand wandered down to rest on his chest. She could feel his heartbeat, a very faint flutter of drums against her palm. "Don't. Immortality isn't worth it." she murmured.

 _Immortality isn't worth you._

She checked her watch. "I should go. It's getting late." she said, gathering her bags. "I almost forgot - this is for you," she said, taking out Antoine de Saint-Exupéry's _The Little Prince_. "It should have just been published in your time, I think. Don't be deceived by its appearance. It's a wonderful little book… and you should read it."

He stared at her in silence, uncertain of what to say.

"I won't be able to come for a while." she added, pausing at the door. "I- That is to say - I'm so sorry, Tom."

She felt the cool touch of his hand on her wrist. "How long is a while?" she heard him murmur. She froze.

"Not quite as long as you think. I- I'll be back in a month's time," she smiled encouragingly. "Goodbye for now, Tom." And with neither motive nor reason, she tiptoed up to place a soft kiss on his lips.

Then she turned, and disappeared.

 **A/N - Hi! Thank you so much for reading! So this is slightly shorter than usual - oh well. Please review and let me know what you think, or if you have any criticism or comments! I absolutely adore reviews :) On that same note, thank you so much to mama123, Beth and Vaneesa85 for reviewing! I really appreciate it.**

 **Have a lovely day!**

 **Calliope**


	7. Chapter 7

The rest of January and beginning of February flew by.

The ice that had covered the lake began to melt - gone were the days of ice-skating and snow fights - but a winter chill still governed the air.

The world was steadily sinking into chaos. Death Eater attacks left and right, dementors unleashed, the ministry seemed to have descended into a whirlpool of fear and panic. Suspicion was everywhere. Sometimes, she'd think back at Tom. What would he make of this? Then invariably her stomach would twist into a sickening knot.

She'd kissed him.

Why - she wasn't sure. She wasn't one to make the first move. Then again, she probably hadn't been in enough relationships for that. Krum had taken her by surprise - he was rough, experimental - it was a one-off. Then there was the kiss to seal the contract - not much of a kiss either. Just a necessary collision of lips - she'd also been taken off guard. There was no truly feeling behind either of those.

But her kiss. As much as she'd have wanted it to be, it wasn't a kiss of farewell. Nor was it experimental, or marking the start and end of a contact. It had been sweeter. A promise. _A promise to return._

A month had passed. She'd read all the books he'd leant her, _twice_. She'd found another copy of _Pictures from Italy_ , in the library, which she now knew almost by heart. She didn't go to the room in the restricted section that night. She didn't go to dinner. In fact, she didn't leave her dorm. She just sat on her bed, playing with the chain at her wrist, reading and re-reading _Pictures from Italy,_ imagining Tom's reaction at each of the places mentioned in the book. She shook her head. She was wasting time. Not only that, but she was thinking about _him_. It was unwise. She had to ensure that she not only kept her idea of Tom Riddle and Lord Voldemort as being two different people - lest she lose her sanity - but that she avoid seeing the former all together. The only way she would ever see anyone Tom Riddle-esque again in her life, would be on the battlefield. It would be his counterpart from the future, and it would be him plunging to his death.

 _A proper death._

"Stood up on Valentine's day. Tut tut Miss Granger, now you really are cruel." came a mocking voice. Tom stood there, arms crossed, eyebrows raised, smirk on his face, eyeing her as though nothing had changed and they'd merely been seeing her for weeks. "You did say in a month's time, did you not?" He sat down on Lavender's bed. "This is a month."

She gaped. "Don't worry - the door is locked, the room is muffled, we can talk without being disturbed." he said, anticipating her question. "Well, aren't you going to wish me a proper happy Valentine's day? Or do they not do that in nineteen ninety seven?"

She blushed. "H-Happy Valentine's day." she stammered.

"Don't I get something? A little token of appreciation perhaps?" he asked coyly.

She got up from the bed, and busied herself with her books. "Only lovers do that." she said cooly.

He frowned, but didn't argue the point. Instead, he took out _The Little Prince_. "This is a children's book."

"It is indeed."

"It was sentimental."

"I should hope so."

"Tell me, Granger, are you being deliberately obtuse or am I insanely lucky today?" he spat.

She raised an eyebrow at his remark. "I thought you would learn some patience from it. And some kindness. And maybe a little about love, too." She sighed. "Did you enjoy it?"

His expression cleared, and lips parted to make a small 'oh'. "I did, actually. The ending irks me a little."

"How so?"

"I- does the little prince _die_?" he asked in a small voice.

"Well, I suppose he does in a manner of speaking." she said absentmindedly, turning her attention to Crookshanks who had just emerged from under one of the beds. Tom eyed the cat with a mix of revulsion and odd curiosity. "But then again, no. He goes on an adventure. It just so happens that his body is too heavy a baggage to take with him."

Crookshanks leapt up next to Tom, who patted the cat awkwardly. Hermione couldn't help but laugh a little. She'd never seen Tom not handle something with grace, but his sporadic petting of the cat - which involved mainly tapping bits of its head and back with his palm whilst wearing a rather confused expression upon his face - was rather entertaining.

They spoke for the next hour or so. They spoke of the little prince, of taming people, of kindness, of love even - though he shied away from the subject rather quickly, of Italy, Florence, Rome - the forum, roman witchcraft, potions and spells. They laughed, joked about the future. He would gaze at her, her hazel eyes, mane of a hair, listen to her laughter, ringing as clear as a bell in the night. And he would smile. She'd smile back. It was beautiful in a way, just to sit and enjoy each other's company.

"How are you?" she asked him at last.

"I'm busy." he said. "Very busy. I've started to apply our modified Protean Charm on people-" she winced at that. If he noticed, he didn't acknowledge it, "and I've… discovered something quite interesting about the castle. In fact, I'd discovered it when I saw you last - but now that I've investigated it further, I've decided to keep it a… running operation of sorts."

"Oh?" she asked, gritting her teeth.

He grinned. "I'll show you." He took her hand, and they disappeared.

She didn't need to ask where she was. She knew. She saw the cavernous hall of stone, the silvery depths of water pooling by her feet, the great statue of the old wrinkly man towering above her, the strange mix of pride and greed in Tom's eyes, where just a second ago, there had been something else, hope perhaps? She felt the damp cling to her skin, the cold settling into her veins. She heard the hiss of the snake. The great basilisk, which lurked somewhere near.

"She won't hurt you." Tom had murmured.

"My inheritance!" He'd laughed. His voice echoed on the granite walls, stalagmites and stalactites shaking, ripples through the water. He'd started to explain. "I'm a parselmouth. I always _knew_ you see. That there was something different about me. _Special._ So I as soon as I got to the library I decided to…"

She stood there in silence. Tears began to stream down her cheeks. She didn't know why. She wasn't one for crying. But somehow, this wasn't right. His voice was just slightly to proud. The glimmer in his eyes shone slightly too much like that of a maniac. There was madness in his mind.

 _Beautiful madness._ _Dangerous madness. Run away, Hermione._

"I can't." she murmured. "This isn't right Tom. You have to stop. You.. you can't do this."

"What do you mean?"

"I-" she closed her eyes. She should leave. "I thought you-"

His mask wove itself back on. His expression quietened. His brow, strict as ever, his mouth twisted down. There was nothing behind his eyes anymore. An unreadable grey, a grey of solitude occupied them.

"I thought you understood." he said simply, without looking at her. "I thought you and I truly and completely understood each other." He began towards the statue. "How disappointing," he said finally. "You can see yourself out."

She could feel herself shaking more violently by the moment. "You- I could never-" She swallowed. "Indeed, how disappointing."

She turned on her heel, and disappeared.

Months passed.

Had she been too harsh on him? No. _No, Hermione, no._ At times, there were moments when she thought she missed him. Memories flickered through her mind. She'd sigh when she'd find a good book on this or that runic dialect. She'd kept on reading _Pictures from Italy_. She didn't know why. She'd never gotten _The Little Prince_ back.

But perhaps it was best that way. Keep a fondness for him in a dream, separate him from the real world. All would be alright.

It was almost exactly four months to the day that she saw him again.

He was sitting on her bed, his expression hollow. There was something wrong. This wasn't the same, confident young man she'd seen back in February. This was someone else all together. He seemed broken. _Like a puppet without strings._

She locked the door, muffled the sound. "Tom? What happened?" Should she send him away? No. No, she'd always been taught to see the best in people. She'd seen something in him once. And if she'd just imagined it, then it was best she confirm that now. "What's wrong?"

He looked up at her in absolute shock. "I- Hermione. I-" he gulped.

"I didn't mean for it to happen." he was shaking rather violently. His limbs a trembling mess, his voice broke as he spoke, he could barely stand. "I- she - stupid, stupid girl." He wasn't looking at her, he just seemed to be staring right ahead. His expression - one of complete and utter numbness. "I didn't- Oh God what have I done? She wasn't supposed to be there. She-" his voice cracked, he couldn't speak.

Hermione kneeled to face him. "Who wasn't supposed to be there? Tom? What happened?" she asked gently. Part of her knew. There was part of her, hidden in one of the smallest recesses of her brain, which knew. She ignored it. "What happened?"

"The girl. What was her name? Miriam? Millie? Mildred? Myrtle? Myrtle Warren. Ravenclaw. She was in the bathroom. It's the entrance. She saw- she saw me open the- I- the basilisk. The basilisk, she couldn't help it- it's-" he dropped his head between his hands. "They're going to close the school. I- I'll have to go back living like a Muggle. If they close the school, I'm going to have to go back, to the orphanage. They'll strip me of my wand. I-I'll lose everything." his eyes widened in horror at the realisation. "This is going to have to be a goodbye. A proper one. Not the half-hearted thing we had in February."

"What happened in February wasn't a goodbye?"

He shook his head and laughed rather mirthlessly. "No. No, it wasn't. I was always going to come back for you, Hermione. I'd.. sweep you off your feet to Italy. Something like that. Steal a silly sentimental book from you. Rip it to shreds. The usual." he smiled weakly. "But that foolish girl.

 _Myrtle._ Every single bone in her body screamed at her to run, get away from him. No, kill him now. Wouldn't that be the logical thing to do? Instead, she cupped his face in her hands, wiped away some blood from his cheek - heaven knows how that got there - _whose blood is it?_ \- and said, with as much calm as she could muster, "You're an adult. They can't send you back to the orphanage."

"Not in the muggle world. I'm still a child in the muggle world." There was a pause, before he added. "I hate them. I hate them all."

"Who do you hate, Tom?" There was something in his eyes, something foreign. _Pure, unadulterated hate._

"The orphanage. I- I live in an orphanage. I hate them. The Muggles. The Mudbloods. Dippet for being so spineless. _Dumbledore."_ he clenched his fists. "He knows. I can tell. He'll do everything he can to strip me of my magic. It's not fair. _Hermione, it's not fair._ "

 **A/N - Hi! Thank you so much for reading! Please do review :) I love reviews, they put a smile on my face. Any feedback is great, any review is fantastic, so please do drop a line! On that note, thank you so so much to mama123, nrm1, Garden Gnomie, and - you guys are amazing!**

 **Rather short chapter here... I'm just keen to get to the story, so this is more of an in between chapter than anything else. Maybe it should be viewed more as a Chapter 6.5 than chapter 7. Oh well.**

 **Have a wonderful day!**

 **Calliope**


	8. Chapter 8

She'd let him stay that night.

He'd sat there, in the dark, the crimson curtains of her four poster bed closed shut as the hustle and bustle of the girls' dorm drew to a close, his hands on his lap, his head drooped, staring at the pattern on her sheets.

Tiny golden stars, woven through silk - swirls depicting a waining moon, a fairytale landscape or so. He'd traced the thread with the tips of his fingers, his mind numb, waiting for her to come back.

 _They'll be wondering where I am soon enough._

He hadn't meant for the girl to die. He hadn't meant for anyone to die. Not yet, at least. He'd made plans to create a horcrux - yes. But those plans would only be put into action once he had all the necessary tools together, which wouldn't be for another decade or so, according to his calculations. _The cup, the locket, the diadem, the sword, the heirloom and -_ He hadn't quite determined what the last vessel for his soul would be yet. He'd thought of a memento from his Hogwarts days. A quill perhaps? Too common. His diary had been considered, of course. Perhaps that would do? He wrinkled his nose - not quite as impressive as the founders' personal belongings, or an heirloom from the Gaunt family - if he could even find a suitable one. Then again… _it will be important. Soon, it will be considered the most valuable of all._

It couldn't be a half-arsed attempt made from the corpse of a fourteen year old girl. Or could it?

It would seem like perhaps he didn't have a choice. Time was running out. _Foolish, foolish._ It was supposed to be a little scare, that was all. Demonstrate his power by opening the chamber. Cement his status. Not close the school and lose his access to magic.

He'd have to act quickly.

First things first. Make the horcrux. Then pin the blame. He'd found that shivering oaf of a Gryffindor - Rubeus was his name. Rubeus Hagrid - hardly decent wizarding stock, probably half giant, with a mad fascination for the dangerous. No one knew _what_ the creature that had terrorised the castle was. Only the Slytherins knew of the chamber - and they wouldn't sell him out. Indeed, Hagrid and his fondness for acromantulas would be the perfect scapegoat. _It's for the greater good. If I leave, the wizarding community has no chance of a glorious future. Hagrid is hardly going to be their salvation, now is he? He doesn't belong in this world, anyway. It's best he go._

He saw a limp, pale girl's body on the ground, glasses askew, a trickle of blood, the sound of running water. A hiss.

He shuddered.

Best not to dwell on those thoughts. _How quickly life is extinguished._ _There had been fire in the girl's eyes before. A cold flame of sadness, but a flame nonetheless._

He saw blank, dead black eyes. _No light._

 _Just darkness._

 _Foolish thoughts._

Time to seize the moment. It was critical he act quickly. He need to get rid of evidence, plant a new culprit -

 _Perfect._

 _And yet…_

He'd told himself he would not create a horcrux until he had all of the vessels together. Or at the very least all of the victims ready. It had to be done with purpose. If he was to split his soul into seven - seven, the most powerful of all numbers - he needed to do it _properly_. He'd already started to plan the symbolism behind it.

He'd kill Dumbledore for the sword - the man would die for his beloved house. The old wizard would crumple to the floor in a moment, his auburn hair clashing with the blood Tom would let flow. No merciful killing curse for that one. Just pain. Pain and a river of crimson that Godric himself would be proud of. Slit his throat with the sword, and smile. He could almost picture the Transfigurations' master in his mind. The sheer disappointment - knowing disappointment, the kind that didn't truly expect any better - etched across his face.

 _Dippet or Slughorn for the cup?_ he mused. _Such trusting fools. Unless…_ There were no heirs to Gryffindor, nor were there any heirs to Ravenclaw. He was the last of the Slytherins… but Hufflepuff..? Whoever was the heir of Hufflepuff would have to go then. How to kill them… Maybe something merciful? _How kind, Tom._ he told himself. _A drink for the cup. Poison for the cup._ He grinned. _The irony is still perfect._ Poison indeed.

Maybe the head of one of the pureblood families for the diadem. Make an example of him. Hang him from the ceiling, parade him. _Malfoy, Lestrange, Black, oh choices, choices, how tedious._ His lips twisted into a smirk. _More irony. The death of one of those inbred fools for the diadem of wisdom and intelligence._

The heirloom. He didn't even know what it was - he'd find an heirloom once he met the Gaunts. The kill was obvious. _Riddle. The filthy muggle will pay for what he's done._ A strange sensation pulled in his chest. He ignored it. This was the only horcrux which he would be prepared to make before the next decade was up. After all, he wouldn't want poor papa to die too early, now would he? Not before they'd been… properly introduced.

The locket. _My locket._ Much like the other vessels - he had no idea where it would be. He would find it though, such an artefact didn't simply vanish. Part of his mind knew who he had to kill for it. Or who he ought to kill. He'd read somewhere that a great man should never have too many distractions.

She was a distraction. She'd driven him mad. She was the first person to understand him - the first person whose conversation didn't bore him. _But she doesn't quite understand. Not fully._ She'd given him a look of such… disappointment when he'd shown her the chamber. Of course, she known immediately what it was. He'd expected shock at worst, appreciation at best. After centuries, he had _finally found the chamber of secrets_ \- how could she not express excitement at that too? How could she not understand the magnitude of the discovery? Why was she so… frightened? Why did she look so sad, so let down - so disappointed _in him_?

Did he want to kill the Granger girl? There was something strange about her. She didn't seem to admire him. She didn't fall for his charms - not immediately at least. She didn't swoon or sigh. She'd blushed - maybe twice. When she spoke to him, it wasn't out of a desire to impress him. She didn't seem to feel the need to try. Instead, it seemed to be out of genuine love for the topics they were discussing, true curiosity. She wanted to know what he thought, his opinions - not get a pretty smile from him. He supposed she wouldn't be affected by him in the same way as others were, she had after all been chosen by the enchantment to teach him how to lie. She unsettled him.

And then she'd kissed him.

It hadn't been the drunken snog, or giggly experimentation he'd been accustomed to, filled with booze and cheap cosmetics. It had been _kind. Kind and honest._

It was, in a strange way, as if Hermione Granger had tried to pry open his ribcage to take a good look at his heart.

A painful experience. But at least now he knew he had a heart. He grimaced.

 _Another conundrum. What if she doesn't approve of-_ No. She would either join him or oppose him. He hoped it would be the former. But should she choose the latter, then-

"How are you feeling?"

She was standing against the dark curtains in such a way that the light from her wand seemed to illuminate her face and messy hair, creating a halo-like effect against the crimson fabric.

 _Such ridiculous symbolism,_ he thought bitterly.

"I'm fine." he smiled weakly. _Just perfectly fine. As usual. Tom Riddle does not get emotional._

She sat next to him on the bed. "Let me see that," she whispered, reaching out to a particularly nasty bruise on his cheekbone. He flinched.

"I said I was fine." he said acidly, pushing away her arm. She seemed somewhat undeterred by this.

"Oh dear, what am I going to do with you?" she murmured.

He raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

She smiled sadly. "I happen to know what the future holds, Tom. I know what you want to do, what you have to do." She looked him in the eyes. "And there is a great deal of it that I disagree with."

"Such as?"

"I can tell what you're planning. _Don't do it._ "

He looked away, his arms folded. "Don't do what, _Hermione_?" he asked, baiting her.

She closed her eyes, and wrapped her arms around him. He froze.

"The horcrux, Tom." she whispered, "don't do it. And… Hagrid. Spare him, too."

His eyes widened. They hadn't discussed the half-giant boy.

He laughed lightly - or tried to at least. "But- Hermione," he said with a polite don't-be-so-ridiculous smile - one that had often been used on Dippet, "the child is clearly dangerous. He has an acromantula,which he keeps in his room. I've even heard him name the thing, some horri-"

"Aragog. The spider's name is Aragog."

His eyes narrowed. She sighed. "As I'm sure you gathered, I know Rubeus Hagrid. He's a good friend." _And I wish he had never been expelled for your crimes._ "Please, Tom."

Something in his chest pulled, and sank and melted. His upper lip began to tremble. "But… what about me? I-I'll lose everything." He shook his head. "I can't let him go."

"I know you can't." she murmured, stroking his hair. "I know you can't."

"Then what are you asking me to?"

"I don't know. Change the past to change the future?" She laughed mirthlessly. "I know you can't do that, don't worry."

"Is the future really that bad? Have I influenced it that much?" he asked, interest growing in his voice.

"Spoilers." she whispered. "Now go to sleep, you and I have got a lot of thinking to do.".

The next morning, they'd risen early and worked out that it would take at least two to three weeks for there to be a proper inquest into the matter.

"They'll need to summon the governors first - their version of the inquest will take at least four days. They won't get the ministry involved until another week passes, and the ministry inquiry will take…" Hermione had paused, "at least another week or two? That'll leave us two weeks before the end of term to find an alibi."

He'd breathed a sigh of relief. She was on his side. Wasn't he? They'd then tried to think of options. She refused to compromise on Hagrid.

"But if he's a good friend, surely this version of the future is good..?" he'd murmured.

She'd hushed him.

"I'm not saying we should change what my present and your future looks like now. That's impossible. But it doesn't mean we can't change the details of what happened," she'd smiled at him encouragingly, "after all, only what I know of the future is set in stone. _The devil is in the details, Tom._ Besides, what I know is only here-say. So long as we can change the truth of-"

"Why do you care?" he asked. "Is the future really that bad?"

She'd smiled at him sadly, and he'd once more felt that familiar pang in his chest. She'd glanced back down at a sheet of scribbles in front of her and frowned, before writing some more.

"What are you doing?" he'd yawned.

"Making a timeline." she'd said, shielding the parchment from him. "Don't look. Spoilers." she whispered.

He didn't look.

"This makes no sense." she muttered.

He raised an eyebrow.

"What year did you say you were in, Tom?"

"Sixth year. Why?"

"And this is the first time you've opened the Chamber of Secrets?" she added, desperation creeping into her voice.

He narrowed his eyes. "Yes. Yes it is. I'd have done it earlier - but I wasn't sure whether or not I was actually the- Hermione? What's wrong?"

"The timelines. Our timelines are inconsistent." Her hands shook as she held the parchment. "In my world you're definitely in your fifth year when you open the chamber. You're supposed to be sixteen. Not seventeen. I-" her voice broke. For the first time, terror flooded her eyes. "This makes no sense. This makes absolutely no sense." she echoed.

"Tom, who are you?"

 **A/N. Annnd timeline inconsistencies! If this isn't the Tom from Hermione's world... then who on earth is he?! Please do review - I love reviews! Criticism/feedback/weird and wonderful comments/cake recipes/ questions - all happy and greatly appreciated! Have a really lovely day and thanks for reading!**

 **x Calliope**


	9. Chapter 9

"What do you mean, who am I?" he asked confused. "I- My name's Tom Marvolo Riddle. I- Hermione what's-"

She placed a finger to his lips. "Why lighwatz as a rune? For the traveling spell? I've looked it up and it's not a time travel rune. Just an imprint one. Where did you get the imprint from?"

He frowned. "It's in my instruction book. The notes on how to travel to and from different places. The magic did the trick the first time so that I could find you. I managed to get it to work the second time, but once we sealed the contract, my runic magic took an imprint of yours and vice-versa, making it far easier for me to find you. Lighwatz - if drawn correctly, ensures that you and I are in sync. Wherever and whenever you are in the world, the rune will always find you. Of course, if you mis-draw the rune, you might get the time-frame wrong, but otherwise you should always get the same version of the person."

She raised an eyebrow. "Same version?" _So that other Tom, the older Tom she'd seen… That had definitely been her Tom, hadn't it? … Since when was he 'her' Tom-_

He shrugged. "I'm just quoting from the book. It says 'same version'. I'm not entirely-"

She hushed him. He looked slightly miffed. "We're not time traveling." she said suddenly. A wave of calm, mingled with slight panic washed over her. If this was what she thought it was.. Then this-

He blinked. "Of course we are, what else-"

"I mean, we're not _just_ time-travelling. You're not the Tom Riddle of my world. And I'm not the Hermione Granger of yours." she said, _if there even is a Hermione Granger._

"Come again?" he asked. He searched her features for an answer. Then his mouth dropped into a small 'o'. He shook his head. "Surely you're not implying that we're in fact traveling between two different universes? That's preposterous. It's never been done."

"That, or no-one has ever noticed it being done. _Because the time-line differences in parallel universes has never been so apparent!_ " she grinned. "Tom Riddle in my world opens the Chamber of Secrets in his fifth year. Don't ask me how I know this - I refuse to go into detail about it, as I have no wish to tamper with the future in your world either, it's still dangerous. You're in your sixth year. Now, the real question is… _why is your world so different?_ "

He narrowed his eyes. "It isn't though, is it? The two worlds look identical - yours is just fifty years ahead of mine."

She shook her head. "No, no. It's a _massive_ difference. And now I think about it, the more different our worlds grow, the further apart they'll be and the harder it will be for us to travel between them."

The colour began to drain from his face. "What do you mean?"

"The reason why lighwatz is so effective is because it's joining two incredibly similar worlds - with only one different factor - the timing of the opening of the Chamber of Secrets. The more dissimilar our worlds grow, the harder it'll be for us to travel between them and see each other. The imprint of lighwatz will grow weaker." She sighed, and began to comb her hand through her tangled hair. "I believe we actually travel between parallel universes quite easily, almost on a daily basis, and it's easy to do as we don't notice it. Lighwatz ensures that the travel is deliberate and that you and I will always find each other. No matter which universe we're in, where or when in the world we are, I will always find this version of you and you will always find this version of me." She smiled.

Tom felt himself getting dizzy - _world travel. The possibilities! They were endless. Just thinking about it_ \- but… what had she said? Something about differences in worlds?

"Did you say you believed it was growing weaker? I haven't seen any evidence of that."

She nodded. "Perhaps not actively, but it will do the further apart our worlds grow."

"So from now on we have to maintain the timeline you know in your world if we want to keep seeing each other? Can't we just find a stronger alternative to lighwatz?" he asked in a slightly strangled voice. "What's my future like in your world?"

Her eyebrows knitted together. Should she be honest? "I can't - I shouldn't reveal much about that," _after all, she couldn't tell him about the future, lest he learn from his mistakes and inflict a worse Voldemort on his world, but a little honesty couldn't hurt, could it?_ "You're doing surprisingly well."

"Surprisingly?"

"Better than I would like." she said sadly.

His mouth curved upwards into a sneering smile. So his plans would work, wouldn't they? "I suppose we're on different sides, aren't we?"

She shrugged. "Why did you open the chamber this year and not last year?"

"I wasn't fully sure I was the heir, even then. And I was distracted - trying to translate the book I used to find you. It took up most of my time, actually."

"So the book is the cause of the split.. Interesting."

"We still need to sort out how I'm going to get away with it."

She raised an eyebrow. "We?" He shot her a grin.

"I'm guessing the version of me in your world _successfully_ pins the death of Myrtle Warren on that oafish Gryffindor boy you call 'friend'. I'm… willing to compromise. For a price, of course."

She glared at him. _That little- Perhaps the their worlds weren't so different after all._ "Go on."

"Your memories."

"Not going to happen."

"I had a feeling you'd say that." He got up. "Poor poor little Rubeus." He said with a sly grin.

She gritted her teeth. She knew the rational course of action would be to hold stand her ground. Hagrid _would_ be taken care of by Dumbledore, right? But that poor boy. How was it fair? _How is any of this fair?_

He gazed back down at her. She looked tired. Her hair was a mess, her lower lip was quivering. Her hands were curled up into a ball, her knuckles bone white, nails digging into her palms. Her expression flickered between pain, exhaustion, sorrow and fear. Perhaps this was her breaking point? He always made a point of looking for people's weaknesses when he first met them. Granger's was obviously the internal struggle between her moral compass and her rational mind. So why did he not get that same gleeful feeling at this discovery? Why did this picture - one of victory - for lack of a better word, sicken him?

"I-" she began.

And this time it was his turn to hush her.

"The reason why Rubeus Hagrid is going to have to take the fall for me stems from two reasons. Firstly, he's got an acromantula. In the castle. The teachers need to know. They are classed XXXXX under the Ministry for Magic's beasts registry. And they kill. He's had that thing since last year and it's not getting smaller. They get to up to _fifteen feet_ in size. And I doubt Hagrid can control his monster." _But I can control mine._

His voice was urgent as he spoke the next few words, almost whisper, the breath of the vowels and consonants tripping quickly off his lips. "That, and we need to keep the timeline relatively intact if we want this to work. Otherwise the connection between our two worlds will falter and-" _And I'll lose- I'll lose you. And you'll lose me. And if we lose each other, there's no hope for either of us to find happiness in any world-_ "the contract we sealed is hardly negotiable. You still need me and I need you."

She looked like she was about to speak- he placed a finger to her lips. Her eyes widened in surprise at the gesture.

"This is where I'm willing to compromise. Since the timelines have to look similar, it means that whatever you know about the future has to happen, or at the very least appear to have happened. I _will_ tell Dippet about Hagrid and his monster. I won't say explicitly that his acromantula killed the girl, I won't go back and plant acromantula venom on her corpse - but I will tell Hagrid's secret. I-I'll also look after the boy." _If I make it through this. "_ If that means I have to bend a few rules - so be it. But I'll make sure the boy is safe, fed, not completely stripped of his magic - which will happen if he's expelled - and.. and happy. I won't make the Horcrux you seem to think I'm planning." _…yet… "_ That is my compromise."

"And the Chamber?" she asked at last.

He ran a hand through his dark hair. "I-I'm going to have to close it. I can put my basilisk back in a dormant state. She's been like that for a thousand years… She won't mind a little more hibernation, I don't think." He smiled sadly. "But I- I can't have them close the school."

She nodded. "I- For the memories, which do-"

"You really don't want to do this, do you?"

She swallowed. "Of course not. It's too dangerous, and… and I'm not sure I-"

She still seemed perturbed.

"Then I've changed the terms of the compromise."

"No- wait, that's not-"

He leant in, to take a good look at her eyes. Fearful, confused - but warm. The warm, secure brown of comfort. "Instead… Come away with me."

"What?"

"I- the trip around Europe. You said you'd come. This summer. Just for a month. Once school finishes." _If we get through this._ He tried to keep the uncertainty out of his voice. His failure at doing so irked him immensely. "I'm sure that you can think of worse things to do than-"

"Of course I'll come!" she spluttered incredulously.

"Brilliant." he flashed her a wolfish grin. "Oh, and when I next need help with the finishing touches of a rune or spell, I expect my actions not to be questioned every five seconds. Your _full_ cooperation is needed."

She narrowed her eyes and nodded. "You should get to work. Raising the alarm on the acromantula will take longer than you think. You need to wait for the enquiry to happen. That should be another two or three weeks. You'll probably be closely watched till then."

"So see you in three weeks?"

"Yes."

"And you're happy with our deal? I'll take you away once school is over, then."

"Yes." she whispered.

He leant in to cup her face.

And pressed his lips to hers. She closed her eyes and before she knew it, her hands were in his hair, his fingers were- she pushed him away.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?!" she spat out angrily.

He smirked. "Why, sealing the contract, of course. See you in three weeks, Miss Granger."

And with that, he disappeared.

.

.

.

The next few weeks were a whirlwind of newts exams and probing constant updates on the Harry-Dumbledore situation.

Whilst perhaps she'd considered sharing her discovery of this Tom from another world with Harry, the fact that she'd been entertaining some form of relationship with him for the past six months made her feel like it would be too much of a betrayal for her friends to stomach.

Tom. Each time she thought of him, something in her stomach twisted. Her heart would tense up and yet- somehow thinking of him would give him an overwhelming feeling of calm and warmth. _It should really be the opposite, shouldn't it?_

She'd actually started to plan the trip. Traveling in his time period, with the muggle war going on and most of Muggle Europe being either under communist or fascist rule would be difficult. So she'd started to compile a list of places she wanted to see, things she needed to do. It was a good way to pass the time, when she wasn't worrying about exams.

Then chaos.

She was holding a small vial of Felix Felicis.

She was running through the castle corridors, wand in hand. She heard voices shouting hexes and curses. She thought one of them was her voice. Did she cast a-

She was running and she- she-

There was something- something sticky on her hands. Metallic. She couldn't make it out in the dark. Was it blood? It wasn't coming off. It wasn't coming off. Why-Why- why was it still on her hands- she'd washed them? hadn't she? Why was it still- what- _Get it off. Get it off me. Get it off me._ Her nails ripped through the palms of her hands, scratching off raw skin. _Red, bloodied skin. There's blood on my hands._

There was a scream. A woman's scream. Shrill and-

She was the one screaming. Why was she screaming? Was that a body on the floor? Whose body- _oh God, oh God -_ she thought she saw red hair - _Ron? No- please - anything but -_ The face was so mangled and torn that-

A shriek. Molly Weasley running towards her and the body. What was Mrs Weasley saying - _Bill. Bill. My son- please._ The old woman cradling the youth's body.

Hermione ran to get help.

 _Dumbledore's dead._

Panic. More blood. More pain.

She thought she saw Luna lying on the floor. No - just a death eater. _Just a death eater? These people have families and-_

Pain again. The relentless pain of the cruciatus curse. It felt like she was being dismembered, like every inch of her body was on fire, her skull splitting apart, the flimsy nerves in her body were being cut and torn open, her muscles ripped apart and her blood bursting in her veins.

She screamed again. Or she tried to. There was no breath left in her lungs.

Then the pain came again.

And again.

And she sank into darkness.

When she woke after what seemed like centuries, she wasn't in the hospital wing as she'd expected. She was shivering in a corner, Nymphadora Tonks standing over her, a weak smile of encouragement on her saddened face. Thorfinn Rowle's limp body next to her.

"He's only stunned." Tonks whispered. "Come on Hermione. We need to go. Can you stand?" she asked urgently.

She got to her feet - shaking.

"Good. Luckily you weren't hit that much. You should be fine." She placed a cloak around Hermione's shoulders. "But of course you're not, are you?"

"I- are they-"

"As far as I know - everyone's fine. The battle's drawing to a close. We need to get you to the hospital wing." said the Auror. "I couldn't bring myself to kill Rowle whilst he was unconscious - call me foolish, but this just isn't right. None of it is- but getting you out is more important. Everyone's safe. Don't worry."

 _Except for Dumbledore._

 _._

 _._

 _._

She'd spent the next day in a strange stupor.

Then she'd gone to see Tom. With every intent of killing him.

His eyes had widened - he'd finally sorted out his alibi. The school had bought it.

She'd stayed silent, and taken out her wand.

He'd looked at it. "Hagrid gets to keep his wand too, you know? It's customary for them to break it, but I've spoken to Dippet. I'll be the one giving Rubeus lessons from now on, since the boy can't stay at the school properly."

She'd dropped her wand.

Her face had scrunched up into an odd grimace of pain and tears and she-

She hit him, her fingers clawing at his face his chest, anything. She grabbed his hair, his shirt, screamed and wailed.

He'd remained impassive. Then confused.

 _"_ _He's dead. Dumbledore's dead. And it's all your fault."_ she'd choked.

He didn't feel the glee he'd expected at that news.

"I'm sorry." was all he could say. "I'm so sorry."

She'd calmed down. It wasn't his fault. That Tom hadn't done anything to her. _Not yet. Or… maybe never?_

He'd wiped her tears.

"Tom- I want to go."

He'd looked quizzical. "I want to go today. The trip. You said- we'd agreed-"

"Hermione- we've still got a week till the end of term-"

"Please." She'd closed her eyes. "Please Tom. Just take me away. Anywhere."

He'd held her close. "Of course." he'd murmured, stroking her hair. "Anything."

 **A/N - Sorry, rather short chapter. I love traveling - so next chapter/or two might be quite travel/history-centric... Sorry in advance. In case it's all a bit confusing - here's the situation. The Tom Riddle Hermione knows is from a parallel world - well done to Christine Rose for guessing that! ;) The reason why they can travel so well/quickly/efficiently is because their worlds are so far, pretty similar, with only one change, when the Chamber of Secrets gets opened. The more different the worlds get, the harder it'll be for them to meet. :o You can see where I'm going with this. So... they do want to maintain the timeline to a certain extent - but Hermione doesn't want Tom to know too much either, as if he does, he might become a more indestructible Voldemort, which she doesn't want to inflict upon any world. The clever thing for both of them to do would be to call it quits... and each to go back to his or her own world. That idea doesn't seem to have crossed their minds yet... or if it has, (probably has), there's a lot of reluctance in accepting it. Drama drama! Anyway thank you so much for reading! As always, please do review - I love getting feedback - makes my day! :) Thank you so so much to geekyassangie, angel987, Vaneesa85, Karuizawa, Christine Rose and Garden Gnomie for reviewing! You guys are awesome! I really appreciate it.**

 **Have a wonderful day!**

 **x Calliope**


	10. Chapter 10

She'd been to Dumbledore's funeral.

She'd cried.

Then she'd left a note on her bed. She'd discussed with Ron helping Harry next year with the horcruxes. She didn't even want to think about it. She'd just summoned the books Dumbledore had on them - to her surprised, they were barely hidden in his office - concealed them, then took them home with her, where they'd be waiting for her once the trip with Tom was over. She wasn't taking any chances. She didn't want Tom to see those books, though she suspected he'd already read all of them. So many people were leaving Hogwarts, few would question her disappearance.

Then there was the matter of her parents.

She couldn't leave them the way they were. Not with the war going on.

 _Obliviate._

Her voice was calmer than she thought it would be. Still. Resolute.

It's one thing to die.

It's another thing to never have existed.

Hermione Granger no longer existed in her parents' mind.

They had never had a daughter.

They had never seen her laugh.

They had never held her when she cried.

They had never told her stories or sang her lullabies.

They had never smiled with pure, unadulterated pride at their little girl's slightly unconventional gifts.

They'd never consoled her. They'd never kissed her. They wouldn't remember the colour of her hair, the exact shade of brown of her eyes - a hazel only slightly lighter than her mother's - they wouldn't know the title of her favourite book, they wouldn't remember the number of times she'd beaten them at scrabble, her scent - cinnamon and lemon drops - they would forget- they would forget… the way she smiled when the sun came out, the laughter on her lips as she saw her first snowfall. Her coming home with a rather large ginger cat. Holidays in France, summers in Devon, winters up in Scotland. They would forget Christmases and Birthdays. They would forget the good days, and the bad days too.

They would forget all about Hermione Jean Granger, the girl with the big brown eyes, their little girl, the pride of their life, the reason why Mr Granger worries so much, why Mrs Granger works so hard.

And that was alright. Because instead, they would be safe. And instead… instead they would be happy.

 _Safe and happy._

Where was she going with Tom? France first, if her memory served her well.

.

.

.

He found her sitting in his dorm - _in plain fucking sight_ \- on a packed trunk, wearing a pale yellow sundress.

"You won't be able to wear that, where we're going." he said, eying her carefully. She looked very pretty, if a little tired. But there was something sad about her eyes, the smile she forced out was a little too wide. There was something off. He tried to ask - she dismissed it. She said she needed a break, a holiday from everything.

"Why not?" she asked.

He'd taken out five maps. She'd eyed them carefully, an eyebrow arched. A few things looked a little off. Some countries did not seem to match with her knowledge of her time period or his.

The first - France. The map looked slightly older, worn out.

The second - a map of Germany. But was it really Germany? Odd bits of Prussia and- was that Bavaria? As a separate kingdom?

The third - Switzerland. No that looked relatively normal - or did the southern borders seem a little strange? Then again she was hardly an expert on Swiss Geography.

The fourth - a map of Italy. She narrowed her eyes. This one definitely looked strange.

The fifth was a map of the mediterranean - the Italy on there did not match the one on the previous map - but there was a focus on Greece and Turkey and-

He grinned, his eyes glinting dangerously. "Confused, Hermione?" He slipped off his school robes and began to undo his tie. She gulped as he started to undo his shirt buttons.

"What are you-"

He gestured to the bottom corner of each map. Different dates scribbled on each of them in Tom's handwriting. 1745 under France's, 1884 for Germany, Switzerland 1524, 1746 for Italy, the map of the Mediterranean was dated 1820.

He took off his shirt, and was about to reach for his belt when she swatted him on the head with a map.

"What?" he asked.

"What?!" she practically screeched, her cheeks colouring bright crimson. "You're practically stripping in front of me! And what in Merlin's name is this?" she gestured to the dates.

"Well," he began, "You said you wanted a 'break', did you not?" He took out his wand and tapped his shirt and robes, now lying on the bed. The fabric of his robes started to lengthen, intricate silver embroidery forming on a now mossy green silken 18th century justacorps. His shirt looked somewhat frillier. He tapped his trousers - these two changed to resemble what one expect a man from the 1700s to wear, not a British schoolboy. His wand then circled his hair, this grew down past his shoulders, falling in soft curls.

"Time travel isn't possible though. I don't-" she began.

He reached out for a dark green book sitting on his bedside table, flicking it open and cutting out the book mark, an emerald ribbon. She narrowed her eyes.

"Time travel may not be possible per se, but world travelling is, remember?" he grinned, before tying his new hair up with the ribbon. "I refuse to wear a wig, though." he murmured.

He brought out his own trunk from under the bed, and gazed at her for a moment. She could feel herself going red.

"I'm no expert, but I don't think that counts as 18th century fashion. In fact, I doubt it would even pass in my time." he grinned, eyeing the plunging neckline of her dress.

She glared at him. She didn't know how to transfigure clothing - it was, in her mind, a useless branch of magic.

"Fortunately for you, I thought about it." he smirked.

"Oh, you have, have you?" she snapped.

"Yes. I took your measurements three weeks ago. You hardly noticed of course, as you seldom do. A new garderobe will probably be waiting for you once we get there. Of course, we will have to sneak through Versailles without your legs being on show."

"Versailles?"

"No, madam Puddifoot's. Of course Versailles, where else, Granger?" he spat. "I'm taking you to a ball. You look as though you could do with some dancing."

She tensed. "I don't dance."

"Everyone can dance, Hermione."

She laughed. "I never said I _couldn't_ dance. I just don't do it." She'd danced at the Yule Ball, after all. Her night-time waltz with Viktor seemed like eons ago now. "I-I'm not in the mood for it."

He yawned. "Listen, we have to go quite soon, otherwise someone will come in. Not only will they see you looking like a harlot parodying a daffodil in that attire, but they'll also spot me in this ridiculous costume."

"Why 1745? Why not-"

"I have research to do, which I need your help for." his lips curled into a smile.

 _Of course. Always an ulterior motive._

"Besides," he added, "The king's giving a masked ball in honour of the Dauphin's nuptials. It'll be a little wintery, a February affair, of course, but I was thinking we should attend."

"Why?"

"Because I need to meet someone there."

"Who are you meeting?"

"You'll see." he drawled.

"So I'm just there to give you an excuse? A girl on your arm to parade around?" she could feel herself getting angry. This was supposed to be a calm holiday. Maybe a small wander around Paris, a couple museums, a few bookstores, coffee and a croissant in the morning. A break from this life. Not an excuse for him to further his knowledge of twisted forms of magic.

"No. You need to relax, this'll take your mind off Dumbledore and every-" _Dumbledore. He was bringing Dumbledore into this? To justify his own sick goals?_

"You're taking me to a masked ball in 1700s, cholera-riddled France to _relax_?"

"Look, I thought it would be nice."

"Do you have any idea - _any idea -_ how dangerous this is, Tom? You're dragging me off to 18th century France, so that you can meet some random person, for one of your insane little projects, under the pretext that it'll help me 'relax'? What is it this time? Resurrecting a dead king? Are you going to drink his blood to gain eternal life? Tell me Tom, because for once, maybe I'd like to know what you're bloody planning on doing! Do you have any idea what-" her words poured out in a flurry of anger, tripping over her tongue, she could no longer tell why exactly she was so frustrated - was it really the trip? Or was it Dumbledore, or Harry, or… or… _her parents. "-_ and you thought it would be _nice_." she spat, _"_ to get dragged through plagues, wars, time-line changes, in a place which-"

"Yes I thought it would be nice. Alright?!" he retorted angrily. His eyes seemed to flash red for a moment.

"How on earth is nice Tom, this is all, as usual, all for your own sick twisted ambition - just how is it-"

"BECAUSE IT'S WHAT COUPLES DO, HERMIONE." He sat back down on the bed, his head between his hands. "Sweet Salazar woman." he muttered.

"What did you say?" she asked, her lip quivering.

"It's what couples do. They go out dancing."

"I-Oh." was all she could say. Her head was swimming. Couple? Since when had this-

He almost looked amused at her outburst. "Is that an 'oh I'm coming Tom' or 'oh fuck off.'"

She bit her lip. "I still want to know who you're meeting."

He sighed, took out a handful of ash and drew a few runes on the floor.

"Well?" he asked, extending his hand.

She took it.

 **A/N - (of course, normal disclaimer that this world most certainly does not belong to me - the characters are very much the wonderful J.K. Rowling's - I've merely taken them out for a very unorthodox spin.)**

 **Thank you so so much to karuizawa, Lena, Christine Rose, Mimosa and GarbleTurkey for reviewing the last chapter! :)**

 **Any feedback/review/criticism/cake recipes are greatly appreciated - so please do leave a note! Also - chapter 11 's coming up quite quickly after this.**

 **x Calliope**


	11. Chapter 11

"I was thinking I could be Hades." he said, his mouth twisting into a smirk. "You would be Persephone."

"I'd rather be Athena." she muttered, eyeing the seamstress with suspicion.

 _"_ _Elle sera donc Perséphone."_ he grinned to the old woman, who now conjured ribbon around Hermione with her wand.

Hermione glared at him. She had to admit she couldn't help but be impressed he'd managed to orchestrate this whole trip alone - they'd arrived in Paris, to a cosy house in the wizarding area of the town. She'd been given a trunk full of clothes - all of which somehow fit - and a massive library. It was close enough to Versailles to apparate, and had a beautiful view of the skyline. Of course, the city looked vastly different from what she'd remembered seeing on pictures in the muggle world - but she could still see the magnificent serpentine silhouette of the river Seine twisting in the distance, and the glittering lights that flickered off the great windows of Notre-Dame.

She also had no idea how Tom had managed to pay for it, part of her suspected she wouldn't want to know, though she felt it had something to do with whoever he was meeting in this world.

Tom seemed to sense a need to justify himself at their Hades-Persephone dilemma. "It's a masked ball! And I need people to know we're going as… a team. They'll be far too many people attending to even try to keep track of you."

She winced at his words. "We really do need to work on the way you phrase things, don't we?"

He scowled. "What I mean is, I don't want you getting whisked away by some page or knight in shining armour. There will be dozens of people dressed as mythological figures - Hades and Persephone have always been a… well, together. It works, we'll keep it that way."

She considered him for a moment, her features changing into a slight smile.

"What?"

"Oh nothing," she murmured. "This is simply surreal, that's all." Her swift acceptance of events surprised her - she felt distinctly Luna-esque in how quickly she'd adapted. _How strange_. Only hours ago she'd been in Hogwarts, and yet now this felt like it was centuries ago. "And you still won't tell me who you're meeting? Or why?"

She could almost hear his brain furiously working, his jaw tensed - his worried expression was one she wore often.

"No."

"Why not, Riddle?"

He went over to the window and surveyed the Paris skyline. "Strange, isn't it? To think how quickly this'll change with time." He turned back to her. "I-Can't you just trust me, for once, Hermione?"

She opened her mouth to retort-

"I've got to go check some of the books in the library." he said. "Your dress should be ready soon, and a house-elf will come do your hair."

She narrowed her eyes, running a hand through the tangle of curls on her scalp. "I'll do my own hair."

.

.

.

He almost didn't recognise her. It was as though she had stepped out of a painting.

Her white muslin dress, though still somewhat dictated by the fashions of the time in its wide skirts and lace, looked as through it had been over-run by flowers and vines, twisting up the nape of her neck, to hold back her hair. Her mask was of gold, inter-woven with roses and carnations. She'd tucked her wand up her sleeve - you could never be too cautious.

And he, he wore black robes, with spiralling silver thread tracing intricate motifs over the velvet. His dark hair seemed curlier than usual, a wreath of various vines and gems woven around his head. His eyes seemed to shine more brightly - yet in the candlelight, she could not truly tell their colour. They seemed to shine scarlet for a moment. She couldn't help but think he looked worryingly beautiful.

 _Never trust a pretty face,_ her mother had told her. _Her mother. Was she safe? Had her parents made it to Australia? What if the death eaters had-_

"Shall we?" He asked, placing a mask of silver over his face. She nodded.

Taking her arm, they apparated to the hall of mirrors. The gallery shone with the light of a thousand candles, filled with people - some clearly witches and wizards despite their disguises - others, Muggle nobles and aristocrats. Some had chosen to dress up as servants - a few countesses had donned the apparel of flower sellers and gardeners - others characters from Greek mythology, she thought she spotted a dark-haired Poseidon in the distance, trailing blue silks and pretty pink shells in his wake. Then there were a few who had come as various flowers and trees - a gaggle of giggling girls dressed as budding roses, their dresses a vivid scarlet of pink hue, their hair held up by a thousand little flowers. There was a man with bright red hair trying to impress one of them - and for a moment she was reminded of Ron. What would he think of her sudden disappearance? She said she'd come back for Bill and Fleur's wedding, hadn't she?

"They say the King is hidden amongst the yew trees," Tom whispered in her ear, indicating a group of men clad in green, disguised very carefully as yews, which had emerged to the great excitement of much of the female population.

"I'm still angry at you, you know." she muttered back.

He seemed amused. "Ah well, we wouldn't quite be Hades and Persephone if you liked me that much, now would we?" he chuckled, pressing a kiss to her temple. He seemed to realise what he'd done rather quickly, and pulled back. "I-that is to say -" he started, but his voice was drowned out as the music began.

The Poseidon with the dark hair came over to them and offered his hand. _"Une dance, demoiselle?"_

Tom opened his mouth as if to say something, but it was to late, Hermione had already been whisked off by the stranger.

He eyed her sulkily, then caught sight of someone - his contact - and made his way over.

 _"_ _Anglaise?"_ Poseidon asked.

"Er. Oui - en effet, j-je suis anglaise." she stammered. "Comment avez vous-"

"I'm English too." smiled her partner, "and if I'm not mistaken… you look as though you possess the gift of magic."

She tensed - struggling to remember what the International Statue of Secrecy had to say on such occasions. Was it valid in the 1740s? In 1740s France?

"It's only that I do too," said Poseidon with a quick smile, twirling her around "Hogwarts - as I'm guessing you must be too. Although I never forget a pretty face."

"Didn't you… er.. come here with anyone?" There was something unnervingly familiar about her dance partner, but she couldn't-

"Yes." he grinned, "She's over there dancing with Hades. He's yours, I believe?"

Indeed, there was Tom, gliding around the room with a stunningly beautiful, chestnut haired woman in his arms. She was disguised as Athena, a costume perhaps Hermione would have wanted to pick out had she been able to. They had now stopped and seemed to be in deep conversation. For some reason, it not only worried her - but angered her.

"I wouldn't quite call him 'mine'. Besides, aren't Poseidon and Athena supposed to be rivals?"

Poseidon laughed. "Yes, yes I suppose we are in a sense. She was adamant to come dressed the way she wanted this time, and who am I to refuse her? She's a spectacular woman."

"I can imagine. What do you think they're talking about?"

"Jealous?"

"No. Curious."

He smirked, "Oh, probably magical theories, no doubt you'll find out. My companion has set your little friend quite the problematic task, I'd say."

They danced for a while longer, and she was just about to ask for his name when a cool, ever so slightly angry sounding voice came-

"Mind if I cut in?"

 _Yes. Yes, I do mind._

Tom, or rather Hades stood before her, his eyes menacing under his shining mask.

The music stopped.

A different tune, slower, more melancholy, started up again.

"Would you do me the honour of the next dance, Persephone?" Hades whispered with a bow.

She looked pleadingly at Poseidon - he merely smiled, before taking the hand of one of the shepherdesses, and dancing away.

"Who was the woman?" she asked, as Tom and she began to sway.

"Athena? Oh just some polite-"

"Don't lie to me. I can always tell when you lie."

He couldn't help but smile a little. "I'm not sure. She's our contact of course."

"And you don't know who she is?" she asked with a twirl, urgency creeping into her voice. "Do you have any idea-"

"How dangerous it is? Yes, but I was desperate." He reached out to tuck a strand of hair which had fallen into her eyes.

She led him out to the grounds, through the gardens, past flowers and fountains, couples kissing and whispering in the dark.

Finally, they came to a secluded place - under a great oak tree, in the far eastern corner of the gardens.

She took off her mask, and conjured a few candles. "What on earth is going on? Why are you meeting with that woman? Why do you say you're 'desperate'?"

"My, my, Persephone," he grinned coyly, "I simply-"

She tore his mask off. A rather stunned looking Tom greeted her.

"Tell me."

"We're from different worlds." he murmured after a silence.

"Enough with the blood prejudice, Tom."

"No. Not that - we're from different universes."

She rolled her eyes. "We'd already established that."

"But when our worlds start to separate, when our timelines begin to differ-"

"You mean if. _If_ our worlds start to differ, and that's-"

He grabbed her hands, and steadied her gaze with his. "No, Hermione. _When_ our worlds differ. I don't know what I'm like in your world, but I've understood enough to know that not only have my goals not been accomplished, but I'm a person you're _revolted_ by." His thumb began to draw small circles on her hand. "I will accomplish my goals. Properly." _And I want you by my side._ He began again. "When our worlds begin to differ too much, we won't be able to cross between them and… see each other." his voice a strangled whisper. "I'm simply trying to find a way around it. But all I've been given are half-answers and riddles."

"Maybe.. Maybe it's for the best." she muttered. _I am after all, supposed to be trying to find ways to kill you._

He quirked an eyebrow. "Don't be ludicrous. Listen, Hermione, we-" He closed his eyes. "Is that really what you want?"

Silence.

"Granger? Look at me, and tell me that you really believe it would be for the best - never mind timelines, or duty. Tell me if you really believe it would be for the best if we - this, whatever this is - stopped."

And maybe she would have said yes. _Yes - it is for the best. We need to say goodbye._

Maybe she would have disappeared, if it weren't for the fact that he'd then leant in, and kissed her.

 **A/N - (of course, normal disclaimer that this world most certainly does not belong to me - the characters are very much the wonderful J.K. Rowling's - I've just taken them out for a bit of a waltz) Otherwise tadaaaa! Cheesy-ness overload! The ball they're attending is the Bal des Ifs (the ball of the Yew Trees) given in February 1745, gorgeous party, I recommend it to any prospective time-travellers. No need for an invitation for that ball in particular, though you do need to present yourself with someone who is prepared to unmask themselves and reveal themselves to be a noble to one of the porters (they can't let anyone in - but most people they do, huzzah for that!) - or just apparate straight into la gallerie des glaces/the hall of mirrors.**

 **Any feedback/review/criticism/cake recipes are greatly appreciated - so please do leave a note!**

 **x Calliope**


	12. Chapter 12

"Hermione." Another rattle at the door. "Hermione!" A bang. "Granger - I swear I'm going to knock this door down if you don't open it now."

Hermione stood at her window, wrapped in a dark blue shall. She'd tried tying up her rather messy hair with a bit of ribbon - an old bookmark, much like Tom had done the other day. She was watching the vas-et-viens of the wintery city. Men directing carts left right and centre, women haggling market prices, children playing in the streets of Paris. It had been three days since the ball. She'd spent three days in her room, alone, receiving no one.

The door crashed open.

There stood Tom, looking absolutely furious. "Fucking woman." she heard him mutter under his breath. She closed her eyes.

"This is supposed to be a holiday, isn't it?" he spat. "And yet you've been stuck in here for three days. _Three bloody days Hermione._ " He clenched his fists. She noticed he wasn't holding his wand, his knuckles looked reddened, bruised. He must have punched the wall down the muggle way, _how strange._ "Listen - I understand that maybe you don't want to be with me on this-"

"It's not that." she said shakily. "Riddle- _Tom_ , Tom, you know it's not that. But messing with worlds is extremely dangerous. It's never been done before and I- well.. it's not safe. And you just took me by surprise, that's all. Do you realise what could happen if-"

"And you? Do you realise what will happen when our worlds divide? Besides you were the one who first- that is to say-" his voice began to falter.

She sighed, and placed a gentle hand on his arm. "Let's not fight. Please, Thomas?"

His eyelids fluttered shut, his expression calmed. "Yes. Let's not fight." His lips curled into a grin. "Well then! Germany next, or more precisely, Bavaria. Didn't you want to see Neuschwanstein castle?"

"Skipping to the 1800s? So, we're not doing this chronologically, are we? And, of course I want to see Neuschwanstein." she said with a light smile. "Are you coming for breakfast?" she asked, pausing at the door.

He nodded. "Granger - why do you call me Thomas?"

She grinned. "Why ever not, Thomas?"

He rolled his eyes, before following her down the stairs. "You do realise that's not my name? I was never christened Thomas. I'm simply Tom, that's it."

She laughed and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. "You could never be 'simply Tom', to me."

.

.

.

A blizzard had just begun when they left. Hard pellets of snow hammering at the windows, Hermione and Tom, hands clasped tightly together, trunks in their hands, traveling cloaks wrapped around their bodies, standing in the front room of their Parisian house, the finely carpeted floors covered in odd symbols drawn in ash.

It was with a swirl that they disappeared, and found themselves again surrounded by snow.

The castle which greeted them was different from the Neuschwanstein Hermione had pictured. In fact, it wasn't Neuschwanstein at all, now she looked at it. Shivering, she stared pointedly at Tom.

"This isn't it, is it?" she said at last, breaking the silence.

He shook his head. "Since we're a little off-"

"Downwards flick on the balance symbol." she muttered.

"What?"

"I- nothing. We- you didn't write _lighwatz_ properly." she murmured, remembering the conversation she'd had with the other Tom, _the other Tom, the one from the future, their common future, the one she'd met the very first time she'd tried traveling though worlds_ , "the flick on the balance symbol should always be an upwards one, and though most textbooks say it's interchangeable, it's not."

He stared at her in disbelief. "Where the hell are you pulling all this information from?"

 _You can tell we've had this conversation already, can't you?_ The other Tom had said.

She swallowed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, "I- research. Anyway point is, small change, big difference in time or place, meaning we've made another mistake somewhere - but our intended 'goal' for being here should be the same… It's a similar process to how we are linked. So, since the goal of whoever was drawing the symbols was blatantly not to see the castle," she said, looking at him reproachfully, "I'm guessing your contact must be somewhere in here."

He let out a small sound of disagreement. "I doubt the contact's in there."

"Oh well, do you see any other options? Know any 19th century inns we could apparate to?" she asked pointedly.

"Speak any German, Hermione?" he retorted. "Enough to get us in without a contact?"

"My German is.. perfectly adequate. Besides I'm sure that they're in there, whoev-"

"Of course they're not, we're at least several miles off!" he spat.

"Then apparate to Neuschwanstein!"

"Granger - considering the fact I have no fucking idea where we are, except for maybe Bavaria, there's no way I'm risking our lives by trying to apparate a potentially inhuman distance away!" he snapped.

"Maybe Bavaria?! Of course we're in Bavaria! This is Hohenschwangau castle! Neuschwanstein castle is just-" she began.

"Just?"

"Good Godric. Our timing is definitely wrong as well. Neuschwanstein should just be up that hill, but it's not so-"

"Our timing?" he repeated with horror.

"Yes, Riddle, our timing, or should I say your timing, since you drew the runes." she said coldly. "I knew we should've come up with a plan for those runes at least, you always, _always_ want to do things at the last minute-"

"Shall I remind you that you were the one who shut yourself in your room for _three days. Oh_ , and couldn't you have mentioned your ' _you need a downwards flick for lighwatz'-_ "

"That was not my fault, if you hadn't kissed me-"

"Oh, so now you're against a bit of kissing? What are you, twelve? Am I so terrible at it that you have to hide in your room for days on end? You're just.. pathetic- shall I remind you that you were the one who first kissed me in the library-"

"Pathetic?! I was trying to be kind! And that's completely false, you were the first one to kiss me, remember? What was it, our first, second meeting?" she said, exasperated.

"I was sealing the contract!"

"You only needed to seal it once Riddle, not twice. It was frivolous."

"Frivolous? Oh so I'm the frivolous one? I- That's- anyway. You initiated our first 'proper' kiss, if we're going to be petty. Besides, you could have mentioned the need for a downwards flick." he said bitterly.

"It's.. an upwards flick Riddle, but that's hardly the-"

"Oh upwards is it?" his temper seemed back up again. "Well every single textbook I've seen says the two are interchangeable-"

"Well, clearly they're not, Tom and-"

"Perhaps you could have mentioned it!"

They were almost shouting again by this point, any cold they had felt subsided as hot anger filled their expressions.

"Perhaps _you_ could have mentioned your contacts before we embarked on this mad goose chase!" she huffed, taking a step towards him, her 18th century silken shoes trudging through the snow.

He then took a step towards her, as if daring her to take her wand out. "Oh really? Didn't you want the 'mad goose chase'? _I really want adventure in my life, Tom,_ " he simpered away, mocking her voice and words, " _I want to see the world Tom, anything Tom, take me away Tom, oh, oh Tom._ You're getting your Dickensian adventure, this is it, get over it."

"I- You have no idea- no idea what the past few days have been like for me. I've lost- I've lost more than you could- No bloody idea, it's not- not your place to judge, you, of all people-" They were now inches away from each other, he could feel her warm breath on his cheek.

"So I took you to a ball and kissed you. The horror, Hermione. Truly, truly tough. It's not like you had a dead body on your hands. Would you like an award, for putting up with Tom Riddle for five days? For looking pretty at a party?"

She couldn't help but laugh. A manic sound escaped her throat. She drew her wand out.

"Playing tough, Granger? Want to try your chances in a duel? Naughty naughty, no wonder you're in Gryffindor with a temper like that. Does anyone even find that attractive or have guys-" he began taunting.

She started to walk away. Rather quickly, actually. So much so, that by the end of his rant, Tom Riddle felt quite alone.

"Don't you walk away from me!" he shouted. "Wait. Hermione. Wait!" Panic seeped into his voice, he hadn't even realised he'd started chasing after her.

She spun around, her brows furrowed, her nest of hair shaking in the cold night air, snowflakes resting on her curls. "Fuck off, Thomas."

"I didn't mean- Hermione, wait, Hermione. Look, it's simply that-"

"Seid ihr verloren?" came a smooth voice.

A young man, with light brown hair, dressed in a scarlet overcoat had made his way over to both of them. He had a cheerful demeanour about him, and regarded them with such trustful ease, that Hermione couldn't help but return his smile and Tom couldn't help but eye him with studied disgust.

"Wie kann ich Sie helfen, junge Dame?" he asked softly, placing a small kiss on Hermione's hand. Tom glared at the pair. " _Is your companion annoying you? What is your name?"_

"I- that is- Wir kommen aus England und.. mein Name… mein Name ist Hermione, und das hier, ist Tom, wir-"

Tom let out a frustrated noise, taking out his wand. _Confundo,_ he muttered, pointing it at the man's temple. Instantly the stranger's eyes glazed over.

"Ah, ja, Hermione und Tom, Freunde aus England, _friends from England._ " he said in a detached voice.

Riddle nodded in appreciation of his handiwork. Hermione just looked disgusted. "And what is your name, friend?" Tom asked in rather smooth German.

"Otto. Otto Wilhelm Luitpold Adalbert Waldemar von Wittelsbach."

"And you live in the castle?" Tom asked in an imperious tone.

"Yes."

"Would you care to tell us your rank?"

"Lieutenant. I am also the King's brother. King Ludwig."

"King?" repeated Hermione, a little surprised. "But surely then you should be- unless… What of King Maximilian?"

For a moment Otto looked more lucid, then the light faded from his eyes once more, "My.. father died earlier this year, in March."

Hermione clicked her fingers, delight spreading across her face, "We're in 1864 then!" _This is before the Prince goes to war, and comes back insane,_ she thought sadly.

Otto looked confused for a moment, before breaking out into a smile, his green eyes still clouded by the mist of the charm. "Come friends! Tis soon Christmas time - a season of joy and merriment! I cannot leave my _english friends_ out in the cold, surely you will sup with me? And my brother, of course."

.

.

.

Ludwig II of Bavaria was not what Hermione had expected. She thought she'd see a slightly crazed young man, famously extremely shy, whose brilliant creative mind had been repressed by the burdens of the state. Whilst this was what partly what she saw, there was a hint of dangerous intelligence in his glass-green eyes, a newfound confidence, yet his general demeanour reminded her a little of Luna Lovegood's aloofness.

Their supper had been a quiet one - just Otto, the King, Hermione and Tom. They'd then moved to a small anti-chamber, a sitting room of sorts to talk. Tom wasn't quite sure whether this was customary, Ludwig had been eyeing him all evening as though sizing him up, and he couldn't quite tell whether His Majesty liked him or not. He made a mental note to remind Hermione to keep on teaching him about lying sincerely. Otto chose to retire early to his chambers - he had a headache, he said.

Now, only the King, Hermione and Tom remained. The guards and servants were quickly dismissed.

"An admirable confundus charm. It's quite unusual for them to stay that long." said the King, gazing at the door out of which Otto had exited just moments earlier, the corner of his lips tugging into a smile. "You will have to lift it of course."

Tom stood up, as though anticipating a fight.

"Are you a wizard?" Hermione blurted out. "It's just I- we"

"Not exactly. But I know enough about magic to recognise its effects." Ludwig said, his eyes twinkling in the half-light.

Tom's hand went to discretely rest on his wand, sitting in his pocket. "Then why entertain us in your palace? Why let us stay?"

"Because I was intrigued by you." he hummed, avoiding looking at them too much.

"So.. You're not our contact!?" Hermione blurted out. Riddle shot her a look of extreme annoyance, meaning, 'O _f course he's not our contact, we're twenty years off target'._ She raised her brows at this, as if to say _'And whose fault is that?'_

 _"_ Contact? Tell me, are you perhaps a spy?" The King laughed lightly. Seeing their appalled looks, he added. "Don't worry, I know you're not. And, no, I'm not your contact."

"You said you were intrigued by us." Hermione finally said, "Since it's not magic, as you're no stranger to it, what intrigued you?"

Ludwig laughed. Hermione couldn't help but feel like she was being made fun of. "The young man who looks like he's been carved out of stone, of course." he grinned admiringly, walking towards Tom, lifting a gloved finger to stroke his pale cheek. "Michelangelo himself could not have done any better."

Hermione could feel her nails digging deeper into her palms. For a brief moment, she thought Tom didn't look wholly pleased, but a smile seemed carved onto his features nonetheless.

"Ah, is he already spoken for?" asked Ludwig, turning to Hermione with an insolent smile, as though he were daring her to say something, react in any way, defy a king. Instead, she remained motionless on her gilded chair, staring obstinately at the wall opposite her, as though the fairytale like motif of the tapestry had suddenly become the most fascinating aspect of her life.

 _Yes. Yes he is spoken for._

She stayed silent, lips pressed firmly together.

Tom eyed her carefully for a few seconds, disdain finally clouding his eyes, "No, I am not, ah, spoken for." he said at last, turning to Ludwig with a slow grin.

.

.

.

Hermione had been shown to a splendid room, covered in various tapestries, with an ancient fireplace at the foot of a large velvet bed. A view of the valley greeted her from the windows - like a scene from a fairy tale. This would have pleased her immensely normally, yet this time she couldn't bring herself to admire the architecture or marvel at the historical significance of those whose portraits hung on the walls.

She found she couldn't sleep. At two am, she heard a sound at the door.

It was Tom. His dark hair, was tousled, he looked a little dishevelled - he was still dressed. "I'm in the room next to yours." he said. She nodded, letting him in, before lighting the candles - the muggle way, Tom noted - and going back to her bed.

"How was your evening?" she asked at last.

"Enlightening." he yawned, before dropping down onto the bed.

There was a rather pregnant pause.

Tom sighed. "Didn't you notice what he said? 'I'm not your contact.' He knew who and where our contact was. As do I of course, hence why I knew it wasn't him. Well, except for the 'where' part, which is why I needed him."

"This is where you tell me who and where this person is." she said, gazing at him intently.

"I can't tell you where they are right now, but I met them tonight."

She rolled her eyes. "Without me? Unbelievable, every single time I-"

"Hermione, we could bicker about this or you could simply get over it. Besides, you know I don't know that much about her." he muttered.

"Can you at least give me a name? So, is it the same woman we saw in Versailles?"

"This time, her name was Aphaea. I think it's always the same person, just under aliases, but I'm.. I'm not sure. She was wearing a mask at Versailles, after all."

"But you saw her here?"

"She was hidden behind a screen in the king's apartments, but yes, I spoke to her, only for a few minutes though, then she went."

"In the king's apartments." Hermione repeated shakily. _Control yourself, Granger. It's completely up to him what he does with his body._

"Yes, Granger. Where else do you think we went after dinner, the stables?"

She swallowed. _The contact, Hermione. Focus. Athena, Aphaea, who was this woman?_ "Why the wild adventure through time and space, why doesn't the contact just stick to one era-"

"I don't know, Hermione. I'm tired." he said, irritated. The room was silent for a while, and despite the blazing fire in the chimney, she felt colder than ever.

"Why didn't you..say anything?" she asked at last in a small voice.

"What? About the contact? Seriously, can't you drop the topic? I really don't know much about them, just that-"

"No." she said, shaking her head. "To King Ludwig. About being spoken for."

He gazed at her for a while, his expression as unreadable as ever. "He was looking at you, not me." he said finally. "You didn't answer."

"I couldn't say no to a King, Tom. Besides, I didn't know what you wanted me to say."

"Since when has that been an issue?" he laughed mirthlessly, leaning back on the bed. "Anyway, I needed information. So for that moment, I wasn't spoken for."

"So.. so.. you thought," her voice had started to shake at this point, vowels and consonants echoing dangerously in her ribcage, "that it would be…" she couldn't quite get the words out, "And what if I had said something? Would you have still gone with him?"

"You seem rather affected, Granger."

"And if I am?"

"Well, you'd definitely got me thinking I was the more attached of the two of us."

"Clearly not." she said bitterly. "Since you're off… _prostituting_ yourself with- with the King of bloody Ba-"

He let out a hearty, high laugh. "Sweet Salazar 'Mione." he murmured, cupping her face with his hands. "Were you imagining that then?" He leant in to whisper in her ear, her eyes widened, "Did it get you all hot and bothered, picturing us together? Him, holding my-"

Her hand cascaded down on his cheeks with a force he wouldn't have quite believed possible was humanly possible.

"Get out."

He blinked, as though trying to register what had just happened. "Hermione, I-"

"You always go too far, Riddle." she whispered.

"Listen, Hermione I didn't mean- I-," he was stumbling on his words now, franticly trying to find a smooth way out of the issue, but failing to grasp the words, "Nothing happened. I didn't- I didn't sleep with the man, Hermione, I couldn't- I would never. Not to you. I-You're the only one I'd-" he ran a hand through his hair. He'd lost his composure. "It was cruel of me. I'm sorry." he said at last, the word strangling his throat. Such an unfamiliar word, an apology. At least unfamiliar when spoken with true intentions.

She smiled weakly. "It's my fault. I should have spoken up."

"To.. say I'm spoken for?"

"Yes. To say you're spoken for. Forgive me?" she asked in a small voice.

"Forgiven." he smiled. "And me? Do you forgive me?" he asked quickly, worry almost creeping into his voice.

She placed a small kiss on his lips. "Of course, Thomas. Of course."

 _Of course. Of course._ He thought he felt giddy, strangely euphoric. Probably something in the atmosphere.

.

.

.

 **A/N - Hi! Thank you so much for reading. Just a bit of a disclaimer, I obviously do not own the characters, they all belong to the wonderful J.K. Rowling, I'm just playing around with them a little.**

 **I don't own Ludwig and Otto either - both historical figures, with really tragic lives. Granted, these are set in a parallel world, so I've changed a few personality aspects of Ludwig. The real Ludwig was indeed gay, but struggled a lot with it, living in a time where it was not only a crime, but an aspect he personally had difficulty with, since he was a Roman Catholic head of state in a primarily Lutheran part of Europe, thus felt he needed to set a religious example.**

 **Ludwig II was rather shy, quite melancholic, appreciating the finer things in life - he was a great lover of Wagner. He had a troubled childhood - towards the end of his life, he was deemed unfit to rule (all politics) and is often referred to as the mad king. His brother, Otto, succeeded him. Originally far more cheerful and outgoing in disposition, Otto changed after fighting in several wars, one of which being the Franco-Prussian War (which he'll be going off to soon-ish after Tom and Hermione's stay). He then suffered immensely from what we would now call Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, and was later diagnosed as schizophrenic. Neither of these men left any children, but both are well worth remembering. So if you go to Bavaria, please see their castles!**

 **Thank you ever so much to Karuizawa, Guest (whoever you are? But yay! Take my recommendation! :) And go to the Bavarian castles too!), Guest (whoever you are, too?), Christine Rose and Vaneesa85 :) I really appreciate it!**

 **Please do leave a review/feedback/cake recipe! Always always happy to get a review.**

 **x Calliope**


End file.
